Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

“Right,” Constantine began, voice rough and clipped around his cigarette. “You lot are going to want to sit down for this one.”

The League had gathered for an emergency meeting at the Watchtower. The tension was palpable, a current of dread thrumming all around them. Superman stood at the front, arms folded, his jaw locked tight. Wonder Woman sat with spine straight, her posture regal but her expression unreadable. Batman lingered in the shadows, motionless save for the faintest movement of his cape. Green Lantern, Hawkwoman, and the others formed a grim circle—seated or standing, none relaxed.

At the center of it all, John Constantine looked wildly out of place. His trench coat was rumpled, shirt half-untucked, and his cigarette already halfway burned despite the Watchtower’s strict no-smoking policy. He didn’t care. Not tonight.

He took a long drag, exhaled through his nose, and let the smoke curl into the air. “Deadman’s heard something from the Infinite Realms,” he said. He shook his head. “Something bad. Really bloody bad.”

Batman’s eyes narrowed. “The Infinite Realms.”

Constantine gave a grim smile that held no humor. “Aye. The Realms.” He shifted, almost like he regretted having to explain it at all. “Think of them like…a root system—twisting through every dimension, every universe, every afterlife. All planes of transition, judgment, or limbo. You die, you might end up in Elysium, Hel, Valhalla, the Underworld—you name it, it all ties back to the Infinite Realms.” He raised an eyebrow, letting that sink in. “They’re the anchor to bloody everything . And if you cut the root…you kill the whole damned tree.”

The weight of that metaphor settled like lead. Wonder Woman leaned forward, eyes sharp. “What has happened to the Realms?”

“Their High King’s gone missing.”

Superman frowned. “High King?”

“Yeah.” Constantine flicked ash to the floor. “They had one ages ago. Nasty bastard. Got sealed away, good damned riddance. No records left on when, where, or by whom he got released, but. Then this new High King comes along—calls himself Phantom.” He paused, letting smoke drift upward. “Deadman says this Phantom guy defeated the last King in one-on-one combat. Made a name for himself real quick. Their people love him. Revere him, even. Real chosen-one type. And now he’s missing. Here. In our universe.”

The room went still, understanding the implications of that.

“...What’s he look like?” Flash finally asked.

“Humanoid. Teen, maybe young adult. He’s got white hair, corpse-blue skin, eyes that glow like Kryptonite. Black suit with silver trim. Might even have a crown made of green fire, depending on how hurt or pissed off he is.”

Green Lantern scowled. “And he’s here?”

“Last seen hurt and fleeing somewhere in Illinois, of all places,” Constantine said with a flick of his fingers. “Deadman managed to trace him skimming along the edge of our world. Could be a portal—natural, manmade, or what have you.” He inhaled sharply, then added, “Only reason the Realms haven’t come through in full force is because Deadman’s still got mates on the inside. If he didn’t... well. We’d already be up to our necks in a ghost war.”

Superman straightened. “Then we need to find this High King. Quickly.”

Batman’s voice came next, low and pointed: “What’s stopping the Realms from doing it themselves?”

Constantine didn’t smile this time. “Because this—” he gestured with his spent cigarette, the dying ember glowing red “—is our one singular diplomatic grace period, Bats. The Realms are watching to see how we handle this. If we cock it up—and I cannot stress this enough—there won’t be any chance at peace. Just annihilation."

He stepped back from the table, flicked his spent cigarette aside with a spark of magic that incinerated it in midair, and lit a fresh one with a whisper of heat. “JL Dark’s building a summoning circle strong enough to track him—or drag him into a summoning circle. But that takes time. Time we don’t have.” He looked around the room, locking eyes with each of them. “You lot need to start digging. What happened, why it happened, who it all happened to... And if there is a portal—call me or Zatanna. Immediately. No heroics. One King of the Infinite loose in the living plane is already bad enough, we don’t need droves of angry ghosts.”

The silence stretched taut, heavy as a live wire.

Batman broke it.

“Gotham’s network is yours,” he growled. “We’ll comb through sightings, EM anomalies, occult interference — anything that might indicate a tear in the veil or a displaced being.”

“I’ll start interviewing witnesses,” Superman offered. “Anyone who saw something strange—green lights, freezing temperatures, a kid with white hair—I’ll find them.”

Wonder Woman nodded. “I will reach out to Themyscira and our magical enclaves. If a rift opened, the Guardians will know.”

Green Lantern folded his arms. “The Corps will sweep the astral lanes. Could be that this High King escaped Earth altogether, too. I’ll have everyone keep an eye out.”

“I’ll run a full sweep of the Midwest,” Flash said. “If anything happened concerning the Speed Force—I’ll find it.”

“I will perform a scan across the emotional spectrum,” Martian Manhunter said. “If Phantom projected during his escape, I may be able to locate a psychic residue.”

“I’ll work the back channels,” Green Arrow said. “My people hear things even the Bat doesn’t. If someone’s been ghost-hunting, I’ll find them.”

Black Canary tilted her head. “I’ll go with him. If this is meta-adjacent or someone’s abducting ghost types, I want names.”

From the doorway, a new voice.

“And JL Dark will track his essence across every leyline and death channel on the planet.”

They turned to see Zatanna, arms folded, ritual silks visible beneath her coat. Her heels clacked as she stepped fully into the room.

“If Phantom’s still here,” she continued, “we’ll find him.”

Constantine took one last drag of his cigarette. The bags under his eyes and his pallor aged him by decades. He didn’t look reassured. Even still: “God, I hope so.” He looked back around at the occupants of the room. “Because if we don’t?”

A beat of silence. No one moved.

“We’re not just facing a ghost war. We’re facing the potential destruction of the entire bloody universe .”

Wayne Manor was quiet.

Too quiet, perhaps—but Alfred Pennyworth had never been one to fear silence. He wore it like a second coat, layered beneath patience and subtlety. Tonight, it filled the halls like an old friend.

The grandfather clock in the study ticked on, steady. Shadows leaned long over polished floors. Outside, the wind rustled through autumn trees. Inside, the house held its breath.

Alfred moved with his usual grace through the manor’s East Wing, a tea tray balanced in one gloved hand. Not a rattle. Not a spill. Only the faintest clink of porcelain as he paused at a window to glance toward the gates. He reached into his breast pocket and clicked open—

A pocket watch.

It was a peculiar looking thing. Obsidian frame. Pale blue crystal. Too many ticking hands. Some moved quickly, others marched on at a snail's pace. Many didn't seem to move at all. One even seemed to be ticking backwards. It glowed an eerie white and flickered frequently from visible to invisible.

Alfred glanced down at it, and he smiled just slightly. He clicked it back closed and tucked it away.

"It is about time for you to be waking, Master Phantom."

The wind outside shifted direction. A candle on the desk flickered, guttered—but did not go out.

And far into Gotham, deep beneath earth and polished stone, something stirred.

Just a breath.

Waking up.

Chapter Text

There was someone speaking—softly, distantly—six feet above Danny’s head.

The words were faint, filtered through wood and packed earth, but steady enough to ripple through the silence that had become his world. His hearing was good—enhanced, even—but not usually good enough to pick up human speech through this much soil. Not unless someone was using Ghost Speak, designed to cut through matter like it wasn’t even there. But this wasn’t spectral language. It was… real. Grounded. Human.

And yet, somehow, he could still hear it.

Danny didn’t move at first. His body had long ago settled into the heavy numbness that came from stillness too deep for sleep and too far from death. His instinct was to curl tighter, to bury his face against the soft, dirty constellation blanket and ignore it. To say "five more minutes" and drift back into the static comfort of forgetting. But the voice tugged at him—not with urgency, but with familiarity—and that made it worse.

He shifted, sluggishly. Joints scraped and popped in protest, and his breath caught at the dull ache riding beneath his ribs. It was the kind of pain that settled into you when your body forgot how to hold itself together, the kind that came from not being whole. When he pried his eyes open, it wasn’t to light—it was to velvet-lined dark. Inches from his nose, the grain of polished wood met him. The inside of the coffin.

He blinked. Once. Twice.

Right.

That’s where he was.

Danny lay wrapped in his old blanket, soaked now in dried ectoplasm and old blood, the wakizashi still clutched to his chest like a lifeline. His grip was loose, but unyielding. He didn’t need to look to know that the blade was stained. He could feel it in the hilt. Could feel it in his chest, in the way his core pulsed so faintly it might as well have been asleep. It hadn’t spoken in dreams. It hadn’t pushed him to move. But now, it stirred—buzzing like a frayed wire.

Above him, the voice came again, clearer now through the soil. The words weren’t muffled by time anymore. They cut through.

"Father benched me. Again. For being ‘too violent.’"

The voice was young, tight with frustration, pitched somewhere between a bite and a tremor. Danny knew it immediately. He would’ve known it through walls or fire or lifetimes. Damian. He was older now, voice rougher, still threaded with too much pride and not enough softness. It echoed off the edges of the coffin like a memory made physical.

“They sent me on that mission. I finished it. Efficiently. No hostages were harmed. Minimal civilian disruption. One cracked jaw and a shattered femur is not excessive when they open fire first.”

There was anger building now. Danny could feel it in the rhythm of his brother’s voice, the way each word landed with more weight than the last. He said them like confessions he hadn’t meant to say aloud.

“But no. Now I am ‘unbalanced.’ ‘Too intense.’ He has the gall to say I need time to reflect, as if brooding is a cure-all.”

A harsh exhale. A pause.

“Father of all people ought to know better than that.”

So Damian was alive. That alone might’ve made Danny laugh if he had the strength. Alive and—apparently—disappointed in their Father. Maybe that shouldn’t have been comforting, but it was. Some things never changed. Parents, especially, had a way of letting you down even when you weren't around to witness it.

Danny didn’t try to speak. He wouldn’t have trusted his voice if he had. Instead, he focused on the sword in his arms, on the subtle pulse of his core. It had dimmed to almost nothing in the weeks he’d been underground, hibernating, healing, hiding. But now it sparked again, just once, a flicker behind his sternum—and something flickered back.

It wasn’t just the voice that felt familiar. There was something else. Something higher. Something just above him, brushing at the edges of the spectral plane. Danny blinked slowly, mind struggling to process what his senses already knew. That wasn’t ambient ghost energy. It was too ordered. Too solid. A tether, barely formed, but there.

He inhaled shakily.

A proto-core.

Faint, raw, and still alive—but there, all the same.

Damian had died.

Maybe once. Maybe more. And with the Lazarus Pits in play, who the hell knew how many times they’d dragged his body back to life and told him to walk it off.

Danny’s core pulsed again—this time sharper. There was yearning in it now. Recognition. Instinct.

It reached upward like a hand.

It wanted to tether, to anchor. Wanted to draw that spark into Danny’s Fraid, to claim it, protect it, make it family in the most absolute sense. The core didn’t understand hesitation. It understood need.

But Danny did.

He closed his eyes and pressed his head back against the coffin’s curve.

He couldn’t. Not like this.

Not when he didn’t really know Damian anymore. Not when Damian hadn’t chosen this. A grave with his name on it. A few flowers. A monthly visit and some grief—grief Danny didn’t even know how to carry anymore. That didn’t mean Damian wanted him. Not like this. Not undead. Not a danger.

Years had passed. And whatever they were back then—it had faded. Lost to blood and battlefields and borders they hadn’t crossed together. Maybe it had never really existed to begin with.

The ache in his chest deepened. Not hunger. Not exhaustion. Just grief. Grief that had no place to go.

Still, he lay there, trembling under the pressure of it all.

He didn’t reach out.

Didn’t answer.

Not even when the voice softened again.

"I’m not a weapon, Danyal. I’m not."

There was a pause. The kind that cracked at the edges.

"But then… why do they look at me like I’m broken?"

Danny wanted to say something. He wanted to say you’re not . That he understood. That he knew what it felt like to be built like a blade and hated for being sharp. But he couldn’t.

Because the last time he trusted someone who said they loved him, they strapped him to a table and whispered assurances while carving into his chest.

The memory crept in before he could stop it.

Sterile air. Cold metal. The hum of containment tech that sang in his bones like an old scar. Blueprints and monitors glowing in the dark. A familiar voice—warm, bright, fond —telling him to hold still.

“We’ll get that ghost out of you, sweetie.”

Another voice, echoing across his ribs as something sharp slid into him.

“Hold him steady, honeybunches.”

Their hands had been gentle. Their eyes had been soft. And none of that had mattered when the scalpel cut into him anyway.

The worst part—the part that still crawled under his skin—was that they meant well . They were smiling.

He’d screamed once. Only once. Then learned better.

His core, even now, throbbed with the memory. Staggered. Stuttering low and unsteady, like an old engine failing to turn over.

You can’t trust anyone, he thought numbly. Not really. Not the ones who say they know best. Even if they said they loved you. Especially if they were your parents.

Above him, Damian’s voice came again, fainter now. Fraying at the edges, no longer quite steady.

“I am not a weapon. My being is not the culmination of my sins. It’s not .”

Then—silence. For a breath. Maybe two.

"You knew that, didn’t you, Danyal?"

Danny’s eyes fluttered open. He stared into the coffin lid, too close to see properly. His hand, trembling, shifted slightly over the wakizashi.

Maybe... he could reach out. Just enough to let Damian know he was here. That he was alive. He didn’t even have to say anything. Just a pulse. A whisper. Something small. Damian deserved that, didn’t he?

But the weight of the grave was heavy. Not the dirt. The expectation.

Danny hugged the wakizashi tighter, tucking it close under his chin like a child hiding beneath a blanket. He didn’t speak. Didn’t send even a flicker of energy through the bond that might have formed.

I’m dead, he told himself. He thinks I’m dead.

And maybe that was better. Let him mourn the ghost, instead of trying to drag the wreckage of his brother back into his life. Let him grieve someone kind and good—someone who’d never come home—rather than be saddled with the truth of what Danny had become.

Let him keep the memory.

Above, Damian shifted.

Danny could feel them. Could track each soft movement as Damian stood, dusted himself off. There was a pause—he lingered.

Then, finally, the presence—the already-familiar flicker of that proto-core—faded. Step by step. Gone.

Only the flowers remained.

Danny waited.

He held still long after Damian was gone. Waited until the buzz of his brother’s spectral echo had completely bled from the air, until even the dirt stopped remembering.

Then—slowly, painfully—he pressed his hand against the lid above him.

It should have been easy. Phasing was muscle memory by now. It was instinct, not effort.

But this time, the effort nearly broke him.

His fingers shuddered as they slid through velvet, wood, and stone. The intangibility stuttered—glitched—and for a moment, it felt like being sliced apart by invisible blades.

He didn’t stop.

Couldn’t.

The pain was sharp, bright, echoing through his body like a cracked bell. His breath caught and stayed there, lodged in his throat as he forced himself upward.

Through the coffin.

Through the dirt.

Through the grave.

A hand—pale and trembling—broke the surface.

Another.

Fingers clawed their way to the light.

And then, inch by brutal inch, Danyal al Ghul dragged himself out of his own grave.

He collapsed beside it with a wet gasp, face buried in his arm as he tried to breathe through the grit. His whole body shook. His chest heaved like he’d just outrun death itself.

His hair clung to his forehead in sweat-drenched strands. Mud and blood streaked his cheeks. The constellation blanket trailed behind him like a ghost of its former self.

The wakizashi remained tight in his grip, its hilt and sheath crusted and black at the edge. Still whole. Still his.

Behind him, the headstone stood steady.

DANYAL AL GHUL-WAYNE

Neat lettering. Fresh flowers. Hyacinths and roses, neatly arranged. Danny’s vision blurred—not with sadness, exactly. Just exhaustion.

He almost laughed—almost sobbed—but the sound caught somewhere deep and never made it to the surface.

Minutes passed—maybe longer. The cold seeped in around him, but he didn’t move. Couldn’t, not yet. His limbs felt like lead, his muscles hollowed out and filled with nothing. It wasn’t just the act of clawing out from his literal grave . It was everything. Healing. Hiding. Surviving.

Existing.

Eventually, the worst of the tremors faded, leaving only a dull ache and the constant, bone-deep pull of hunger. His stomach curled in on itself. His core flared in protest, fluttering like a dying moth in his chest. Ectoplasm. Protein. Sugar. Anything would help—but there was nothing to give. Not here.

The wind stirred the grass around him, brushing against the bouquet left at the grave’s base. The white roses bobbed slightly. The hyacinths stayed still. Blue and pale and quiet.

Danny turned his face into his sleeve.

He couldn’t stay.

His mind, dulled by fatigue, wandered in slow, inevitable spirals. First to the cold. Then to the hunger. Then—finally—to home.

Not Gotham. Not this grave.

Amity Park.

He saw it behind his eyes: the creaky front porch of FentonWorks. The constant glow of half-maintained ghost equipment. Jazz’s books stacked in the hall. Sam’s scowl at anything too pink. Tucker’s laugh echoing through the park when something exploded that absolutely shouldn’t have.

He missed them so much it physically hurt.

His core ached with the distance. With absence. With fear.

Should he reach out?

Let them know he was alive? That he’d made it out? That he was free—more or less?

The idea bloomed like hope, stupid and dangerous.

He couldn’t afford hope.

The memory came back uninvited—too sharp, too recent.

Sirens. Metal walls. Ghost-proof locks slamming shut. The hiss of a containment field going live. Jazz’s voice, urgent and trembling. Tucker’s hands, shaking as he shoved the emergency go-bag into Danny’s grip. Sam’s eyes, wide and furious and wet with unshed tears.

The white of GIW uniforms closing in from every angle.

He’d been the bait. They’d been the trap. And Danny had made the call—to flee. To run.

He didn’t even know if they got out.

He didn’t know if they were alive.

He didn’t know anything.

A breath shuddered out of him, caught somewhere between a gasp and a cry.

If the GIW had touched them—hurt them—because of him...

He pressed his hand tighter over the wakizashi, grounding himself in the worn leather of the grip.

No.

He couldn’t risk it. Couldn’t dare reach out. Not yet. Not while he was still this weak, this hunted, this fractured.

His Fraid would be safer without him.

Even if it meant he had to live with the not-knowing.

Even if it broke him.

Danny dragged the ruined constellation blanket tighter around his shoulders. It clung to him like memory, like grief. It didn’t warm him—he wasn’t sure he could feel warm anymore—but it shielded him from the wind, and maybe that was enough.

He pushed himself to his feet.

It took two tries. The first time, his knees buckled and the world tilted, and he had to pause, eyes squeezed shut, until the vertigo passed. The second time, he made it to his feet, swaying like a tree in a storm.

He looked one last time at the grave.

His name.

The flowers.

The headstone that was too new and too real and too quiet.

Then he turned away.

Gotham loomed beyond the cemetery gates—steel and smoke and shadow. The kind of city that devoured the weak and spat out something meaner. Something hungrier.

Danny squared his shoulders. Or tried to. His posture was more wilted than defiant, more ghost than boy.

But he was up. He was moving. One foot in front of the other.

Into the smog; into the dark—

Into the unknown.

Chapter Text

Two months.

He was in his grave, sleeping, for two months.

Danny’s grip on his soggy copy of the Gotham Gazette tightened. The pages squelched, and ink stained his fingers. He leaned a little heavier into the wall behind him, keeping half-hidden in the shadows of a crumbling building. His breath frosted in the damp air.

A stolen coat hung from his shoulders, far too large, the sleeves covering his hands and fraying at the edges. It masked the shape of him, draped low over his knees and wrapped tight around his chest. Beneath it, cradled close, was his wakizashi, still wrapped in a now-crusted blanket. He held it like it might disappear if he let go.

His eyes glowed faintly—just for a breath—before dulling back to their standard blue.

Two. Months.

The knowledge sat heavy in his chest. He had read the date on the paper three times before his brain accepted it. Two months lost. Two months unaccounted for.

A patrol car rolled by the far end of the alley, its lights dimmed. He instinctively shrank further into the coat, eyes lowering, limbs curling in. The sword pressed tighter to his chest.

Anything could’ve happened in two months... Was his Fraid alright? Were they safe? Were they arrested? Hurt? Interrogated? Tortured? ...Killed?

His core shuddered at the thought. 

His sword’s hilt peeked out from the folds of his coat. He ran a thumb across it without thought, grounding himself. His other hand finally let go of the paper. It crumpled to the street and fluttered away. Its wet pages landed on the ground with a harsh splat .

Was it really the right call? Not reaching out to them? But what if they answered? …What if they didn’t?

He didn’t know what would be worse.

A nearby garbage can rattled as a rat scurried out. Danny didn’t flinch. He just watched it with dull eyes, breathing slow and shallow. 

Not that it changed anything. Danny was in Gotham, not Amity Park. And as long as he didn’t transform… didn’t attract the city spirit from whatever shadows it calls home… he was hidden. Invisible to the GIW.

His stomach growled, a sharp cramp that dragged a wince from his face. He curled forward, one arm wrapping around his middle. Eyes flicked up—tired, sharp—to the boarded-up corner shop across the street.

First thing’s first: settle his core, and meet his base needs. Food. Water. Shelter. A source of ectoplasm—if he’s lucky.

The breeze picked up, tugging at his coat’s hem and lifting the newspaper from where it had landed. It somersaulted down the alley, vanishing into the dark without a sound.

Danny closed his eyes.

Just... one step at a time.

The shelves of the corner store were half-stocked and half-forgotten. A refrigerator groaned in the back from exertion.

The air tasted like lemon floor cleaner and regret.

Danny moved with an unhurried limp. His heavy coat swallowed his frame, masking the slump of his shoulders, the way his left knee dragged slightly more than the right. He kept his head down.

The cashier behind the counter didn’t speak—just watched closely, alert for trouble.

Danny drifted down one crooked aisle, past bent cans and shriveled bags of chips. He paused once, adjusted the fold of his coat, and with the ease of old training, slipped two protein bars, a pack of trail mix, jerky, and a small bottle of water into the hidden inner pocket. One packet of gum—cheap and overly sweet—he plucked from the front rack and set gently on the counter.

It was the illusion of civility. Something to pay for, something to distract.

As he moved, the hem of his coat shifted too far to the side. The sword's hilt, obsidian-dark and worn from his grip, peeked free.

The shift in atmosphere was immediate.

He didn’t need to look to know the cashier had seen it.

He dropped coins for the gum, then left.

The doorbell chimed as he stepped back out into the Gotham night.

He moved quickly, just in case the cashier got wise and called the police. His footsteps splashed dirty puddle water up his pants and the already-dirty hem of his coat.

Danny palmed his meager prize. He took stock of himself.

Energy: mid-level. Not ideal, but workable.

Pain: low, but constant. A background noise he could set aside to deal with later.

Hunger: his human half was starving. His ghost half—

Danny stopped mid-step, focusing on his core.

His core, which had been a slow throb of unsteady hunger since waking, was quieted. Not entirely, but enough to notice. Notice that something in him had been fed.

And Danny, instinctively, knew—

The look in the cashier’s eyes—recognition of the weapon hidden in Danny’s coat. Of danger. Of violence.

Fear.

Somehow, he had fed on their fear.

And that fact sat heavy in his gut.

Danny pulled the coat tighter, not because of the chill, but because he needed something to cling to. Something to remind him there was still skin and bone and boy beneath the Phantom.

He had used that fear to get what he needed. Both for his human side and, apparently, his ghost side.

Danny’s core was purring at being fed, but his heart was gripped with terror.

He forced himself to keep walking.

The rhythm of his boots against the concrete was uneven with the hint of his limp. A city moved around him, indifferent to his presence. Neon signs flickered overhead. Wind carried whispers and smog.

Cutting through his thoughts of despair and his inhumanness was loneliness.

He missed his Fraid.

Sam’s dry remarks, too fast and too sharp to be ignored. Tucker’s jokes and gestures that always meant more than they seemed. Jazz’s steady eyes that never stopped reading him, even when he thought he’d said nothing.

They would have reassured him. Joked with him. Helped him learn his new ability in and out until it was less alien and more Danny.

Were they okay?

That—not the cold, not the GIW, not the fear of what he’d become—was the sharpest thorn in his heart.

He crossed streets mindlessly. Avoided eyes and bodies alike. When the path veered toward a yawning mouth of alleyway—some street named Park Row—he stopped short. A pressure curled in his chest.

There was a ghost haunting that place. Angry, sad, and territorial. Danny didn’t need to see it to know its shape. He turned away and gave it a wide berth. It didn’t want company, and he wasn’t in any sort of shape to be picking fights.

A few blocks over, sirens pierced the smog.

Lights strobed against the street as he crept up to the edge of a shuttered storefront and ducked into its alcove. Across the street, a bank stood open, its glass shattered, alarms wailing uselessly. Inside, three men—maybe four—shouted at civilians, waving weapons, dragging money out in sacks far too big for easy escape.

Danny’s fingers twitched.

He watched, crouched in a ready stance. His hand wrapped around the hilt of the blade at his side. The other held tight the scabbard. The urge to move was loud, screaming through muscle and instinct. He could stop this . He could phase through glass, disarm them in seconds, and be done before they even saw him coming.

But white hair and green eyes would give him away.

One sighting was all it would take. One glance, one blurry photo, then the GIW would descend. Not just on him, but on the city. And if they found out about Gotham’s ghosts...

He couldn’t afford it.

His breath was shallow as he leaned into the concrete behind him. His core burned against his stillness. The urge to do something clawed at his ribs.

Then, motion from the rooftops—fast, clean, practiced.

A figure in black dropped from a rooftop without a sound. Cape flaring, boots hitting pavement like whispers. Another followed, violet and bright against the shadows.

Black Bat struck first. Efficient. Silent. Spoiler followed, disarming a man with a snap of her heel and a well-placed kick. The scene folded in on itself, criminals crumpling one by one, chaos turning to whimpers.

Danny didn’t move. His breathing slowed. His heart calmed. His core settled, unhappy with not being involved, but calm now that the threat had passed.

He was not Gotham’s hero. They didn’t need him there fixing every little problem. Gotham had Batman and his entourage of bats and birds. He wasn’t the sole necessity has he had been back in Amity.

Danny turned away.

He drifted away from the scene, slipping down a side street where the pavement cracked and weeds clawed through the gaps. His footsteps echoed only slightly, muted by trash and grime. No rush now. No fire behind his ribs.

But not peace, either.

That familiar tug returned, dull and unrelenting—a quiet yearning under the surface of his skin. Not for battle. Not for glory.

For something smaller.

Something simpler.

The chance to help. To Protect.

He tucked the thought away. Not now. Maybe later.

But as the calm set in, the fear returned. Crawling up the base of his spine like ice. He saw Sam’s face in his memory—creased with worry, the way it used to twist when he tried to lie. Tucker, too. Laughing and bright, but only if you looked in the right light. Jazz, with that stillness in her gaze. That ability to see the things he didn’t say, didn’t want to say.

What if they weren’t okay?

What if, in all this silence, something had already happened?

His chest tightened. His fingers trembled slightly in their sleeves. He gritted his teeth, jaw aching from how hard he had to force the fear down.

He needed to know.

Gotham’s side streets blurred as he walked. Neon and grime, shadow and steel. He followed no clear direction, only instinct, until the city spat him out into a narrow back alley behind a pawn shop and what used to be a laundromat.

He stepped between the bins, eyes scanning piles of trash and shattered devices until something caught the light. A screen. Hairline-cracked, but intact. He grabbed it, crouched down beside a tipped milk crate, and began scavenging in earnest.

An old battery. Half a board from a security radio. Bits of wire, a broken SIM tray, a microchip.

It would have to do.

He huddled into the corner, shielding his find from the wind with the wings of his coat. His hands, though stiff and numb, moved with methodical urgency. He twisted wires together, stripped ends with the blade of his nail, pressed the barest flicker of ectoplasm into the core of the battery to jumpstart it.

Green light bloomed faintly, just under his skin. The components shimmered, hissed—and then held.

He winced. It hurt.

Every drop of energy he spent was a risk, a drain, a calculated gamble.

But this?

This was worth it.

The screen flickered, glitched, then steadied. Ugly UI. Warped pixels. The kind of bootleg signal that would make Tucker sob. But it worked.

Danny stared at the keypad for a long time. Then his fingers moved.

“I’m alive. Are you safe?”

He hit send.

Thunder rumbled threateningly overhead. He moved into the abandoned laundromat as he waited for a reply. The building was a skeleton of itself—machines rusted open, glass windows shattered and boarded up, and graffiti layered in overlapping tags all over the machines and the walls. He crouched beside one of the old washers, burner phone held tight between his palms.

The seconds stretched like infinity.

Then the phone buzzed.

Once.

Twice.

Then again.

He couldn’t breathe. Just stared at the names as they appeared, blinking onto the tiny screen like stars through storm clouds.

Sam.

Tucker.

Jazz.

His heart didn’t beat faster. It just—stopped clenching.

The tears came quiet and sudden. His whole body folded around the phone as if it were something fragile, a lifeline pulsing light in the dark. His breath hitched once. Then again. Shoulders trembling.

They were alive.

The relief wasn’t soft—it was sharp, like ripping open an old wound.

It left him aching in ways he hadn’t let himself feel in forever.

He pulled his knees up and held the phone to his forehead. His hands shook.

They’re okay.

Chapter Text

The burner phone buzzed.

Danny startled. The screen in his hands flickered once, dimmed, then surged with static.

He blinked, pulling it back to look.

The interface warped. Glitched lines crawled across the edges of the display like something half-submerged in a snowstorm. Buttons shifted without his touch, the signal bars spiked erratically. For a moment, he thought it was dying. That he’d pushed it too far.

Then something clicked in the circuitry.

A pulse of green rolled through the phone like it had taken a breath.

The screen flashed.

"VIDEO CONNECTING..."

Danny froze.

He hadn’t tapped anything.

His thumb hovered above the keypad—had he hit a wrong command? A call-back? His breath caught as the camera stuttered to life, the little lens on the side glowing dimly red. Audio hissed from the corroded speaker in broken static.

Then an image blinked into being.

Warped. Crooked. The screen no larger than a few inches across, edges darkened with burn damage, but there— there —was light.

A room. Cramped and cluttered. Harsh lamp overhead. Blankets and wires. An old laptop against the wall.

The video shook violently for a moment before someone steadied the feed.

Danny’s eyes locked on the blur that resolved into combat boots pacing a path into the carpet. Sam. Still armored. Still moving like she hadn’t stopped since the day he vanished.

Tucker leaned into frame next. Holding the device. Wide-eyed. Red-rimmed, but grinning anyway—grinning like someone who’d refused to let go of hope even when it hurt.

And then—

Jazz.

Sitting at the edge of a couch, shoulders hunched, arms folded tightly against her body like if she let go of herself, she’d collapse. Her mouth was moving, steady and low, probably trying to soothe the other two. She didn’t look at the screen— not yet.

Danny’s hands gripped the sides of the phone like it might slip through him. His body was frozen, breath shallow, eyes drinking in every flickering second of their movements.

No sound came through. Only static. Words twisted and warped by bad reception and ectoplasmic residue.

But he didn’t need to hear them.

Sam paused mid-step. Looked up. Her eyes locked on the camera, widened.

She lunged toward it.

Tucker scrambled to keep it steady.

Jazz finally looked directly into the feed, and for one, shattering moment, all three of them were looking back at him .

He couldn’t hear their words.

But he felt them.

His chest ached with it.

A sob slipped past his throat before he could stop it. He bent forward, arms curling around the phone like he could fall through it and be there again. Just for a second. Just to touch the edge of that light.

Something inside his core shifted.

The sharp, cold silence that had haunted him since the grave cracked at the edges. It wasn’t warmth that filled it, but something steadier. Familiar. Real.

His tears spilled without shame.

For the first time in weeks, he wasn’t alone.

The screen blinked again. Glitched. Lines stuttered along the edges.

Then, like a sigh through broken wires, the speaker clicked . A faint whine bled into the air, growing louder until it cracked—then cleared.

The audio came back.

A voice, fractured and compressed, burst through with all the subtlety of a blown amp. Technus.

“—an amateur system! Ugh! Primitive, but functional! You’re welcome, boy!”

The connection stabilized just long enough for Danny to blink, stunned, before the interference vanished. A spark snapped from the edge of the phone. The interface settled.

And suddenly—clearly—he could hear them.

“—Danny?!” Sam’s voice hit like a shockwave, raw and trembling. She was practically on top of the screen now, her brows furrowed, hands clutched around the edges of the camera as if trying to climb through.

“Dude, oh my— you’re alive! Where are you? Are you okay?” Tucker’s voice overlapped hers, glitching slightly but still full of frantic, bubbling relief.

Jazz didn’t say anything at first. But her breath caught loud and shaky over the line, and that sound alone brought another shiver racing up Danny’s spine.

His lips parted, throat raw.

He didn’t know where to begin.

So he just started.

He sat back against the cracked washer, eyes still locked on their faces. The words came haltingly at first, rasped from a dry throat unused to speaking more than a whisper for days.

“I’m okay,” he said, though it wasn’t quite true. “I’m... somewhere safe.”

He leaned closer, voice soft but steadying with each word. “I’m tired. And hungry. But I’m okay.”

His fingers flexed around the phone, knuckles white. “Are you? Are you all okay? Have they come after you? The GIW? Anyone?”

The weight of the question settled heavy across his tongue. He didn’t realize how scared he was until he asked it out loud.

Jazz leaned forward then, and for a moment, her voice alone carried the weight of everything he needed.

“We’re safe,” she said, firm. “We’ve been hiding. Moving every few days. Tucker set up a relay to scramble our trail. Sam—” she paused, glanced offscreen with a faint, tired smile, “—scared off a pair of agents two weeks ago. We’re okay. You didn’t put us in danger. You did the right thing.”

Danny sagged, breath leaving him like a slow exhale through ice.

“You’re sure? ” he pressed. “No trackers? No taps?”

“No,” Tucker replied. “We sweep every day. And now that we know you’re alive? We can start helping again. We have a plan set up and everything. We went through all the contingencies.”

“We can help you,” Sam’s voice came next, lower. “But only if you let us.”

Danny said nothing at first. He just looked at each of them, slowly, re-memorizing their faces. Even through the tiny screen they all looked tired. Worn. Pale. Running on adrenaline and hope.

There was a long pause.

None of them filled it. Sam, Tucker, and Jazz all waited with expressions half-hopeful, half-braced. As if they'd learned the hard way not to interrupt when Danny’s voice dropped like that—careful, hesitant, wound tight in grief.

He swallowed.

“I’m in Gotham,” he said finally, voice low. Gravel-thick. “I didn’t mean to come here, not really. I just... followed something. I didn’t realize it at first, but it was pulling me. Guiding me, maybe.”

A short breath. His eyes flicked downward, to the half-glowing edge of the phone, then back to the warped screen where his Fraid waited.

“I woke up in a grave.”

On their end, three faces shifted. Jazz’s mouth opened slightly. Tucker leaned forward. Sam didn’t blink.

“It was my grave.”

The silence tightened.

Danny’s fingers clenched slightly around the edge of the device, like it might steady him.

“There was a marker. My name... not the one you know. Not Daniel Fenton . It said—‘Danyal al Ghul.’”

He didn’t look at their faces then. Couldn’t. He stared just past the screen, at a rust stain crawling up the cracked tile behind it.

“I never told you because I thought it didn’t matter. That I didn’t matter to them -–my last family,” he said, voice soft. “I had a twin. Damian. We were raised together. Trained together. Before I came to Amity Park, before the portal—before I became a Fenton.”

He forced himself to look up again.

“There were fresh flowers on the grave.”

That hit harder than anything else. A memorial was one thing—a symbol. A name etched in stone. But the flowers? Someone had tended them. Someone had come back. Continued coming back , considering how Danny woke up to new flowers and Damian’s voice six feet overhead.

Danny’s shoulders sagged. “I didn’t think he’d mourn me,” Danny croaked. “I didn’t think anyone from that life ever would.”

For a moment, none of them spoke.

But something flickered behind Jazz’s eyes. Not surprise—recognition. Quiet, dawning grief. Tucker’s hand was pressed against his mouth now. Sam... Sam looked ready to bite through steel.

Danny let the words settle like dust, like ashes, like names carved into marble that no one had meant for him to read.

And across the glitching signal and static-patched silence, his Fraid didn’t look away.

They held him in that digital space—quiet, stunned, grieving with him.

The connection buzzed faintly, a soft static threading between breaths. No one said anything at first. The quiet wasn't awkward—it was heavy, necessary. A moment of stillness to let the truth settle in the bones.

Then Jazz leaned in, her expression cautious but clear.

“Are you going to reach out to him?” she asked, voice hushed by distance but sharpened by the clarity only siblings carried.

Danny blinked, then looked down. His fingers rubbed the edge of the phone, thumb worrying at the burn-warped casing. He didn’t wince, but something in his shoulders folded in.

“I don’t know,” he murmured, hushed.

Jazz didn’t press, but something in her gaze shifted—gentle but firm, a familiar line she’d used countless times before, whenever he tried to bury something too deep for light. “You could,” she said softly. “He left flowers , Danny. That means something.”

Danny shook his head once. His jaw tensed, bracing against some invisible current. “It’s been seven years , Jazz,” he said. “We were eight when I last saw him.”

He paused. Searched for words that didn’t cut on their way out.

“We don’t know each other anymore.”

Tucker opened his mouth, then closed it. Sam’s arms were folded now, but her face wasn’t angry. Just... pained.

Jazz didn’t flinch at his answer. She just watched him with that same soft steadiness she always carried. The kind that let silence stretch without snapping.

Danny sighed.

“I don’t know who he is now,” he said finally. “And he sure as hell doesn’t know me.”

The words were bitter. Old grief reopened into fresh wounds.

“I’m not that kid anymore. Not Danyal al Ghul. Hell, am I even Fenton anymore, after what happened? Can I even be Phantom, with the GIW on my tail? I’m just…remnants.”

That was the truth of it. And it sat between them all, unmovable.

Jazz didn’t argue. Neither did the others.

Because they knew . Some wounds didn’t scar over. Some names didn’t come back just because someone said them.

Danny exhaled, slow and uneven, as if the act of speaking had taken more out of him than building the phone had.

“Maybe one day, I can be someone again. Maybe even be Damian’s brother again,” he said, barely above a whisper. “But not right now.”

His friends and sister, so far away, cried silent tears with him.

Jazz’s voice cut through the quiet like the softest blade.

“But you miss him,” she whispered.

Dann’s fingers tightened on the phone. The casing creaked under the pressure.

It wasn’t an accusation. It wasn’t even a question—just truth, spoken plainly, the way only she ever could to him. A simple, impossible sentence that cracked something open in his chest. His heart bled freely under the statement.

He didn’t respond.

He didn’t nod or even try to deny it. Just sat there, curled beside a rusting washing machine in a dead laundromat, while the wind outside howled through broken glass like a ghost dragging chains. And the silence was answer enough:

He did miss Damian.

Not just the memory of him. Not just the boy they used to be, pressed shoulder-to-shoulder in quiet corners of ancient halls. Not just the twin he used to share bruises and breath with.

He missed belonging to someone like that.

Missed the familiarity of it, the symmetry. The knowing someone else would understand the way his breath hitched before a strike, or the way he always stepped with his left foot first.

He missed the silence between them—the kind that wasn’t lonely.

But he didn’t say any of that. Couldn't.

His throat ached, full of things too heavy to name.

The screen flickered again. Sam shifted slightly, out of focus. Tucker wiped his nose with the back of his sleeve, pretending not to.

Jazz didn’t speak again. She didn’t need to.

Danny stared at the tiny screen, eyes burning from tears he refused to shed.

Danny held the wakizashi close, forehead resting against its sheath. The cool lacquer met his skin, grounding him in the here and now— not in the grave, not in the past, but in this moment. His voice, when it came again, was soft and unguarded.

“Yes,” he admitted, finally. “I miss him.”

Then he forced himself to breathe. He sat back and blinked down at the tiny screen still glowing in his lap, where three of his precious people waited for him to collect himself.

“What do we do next?” he asked.

The shift was instant. Jazz straightened. Sam leaned forward. Tucker’s eyes lit with the focused fire of planning—too sharp for exhaustion to dull.

“It’s going to take time,” Jazz said. “We need to shut the Fenton Portal down for good.”

Sam nodded. “There’s no keeping it open anymore. Not with the GIW crawling over every lead. Without Phantom here to protect the ghosts coming through, Red Huntress can’t cover everything. Shutting down the Fenton’s portal will keep them from hurting anyone else. Vlad’s portal—well, he actually keeps his portal shut down at the moment. Everyone’s in too hot of water to risk getting caught, especially him.”

“Next priority is gathering supplies,” Tucker added. “Cash, food, medical kits, secure lines. And wheels—we’ll need a vehicle big enough to store gear and low-profile enough not to ping any checkpoints.”

“It’ll take a week,” Jazz said. “Maybe less if we don’t hit snags.”

Danny nodded slowly, though the idea of waiting that long made his stomach twist. Still, it wasn’t just about him anymore. It hadn’t been for a long time.

“And me?” he asked.

Tucker grinned faintly, just enough to tease, though the exhaustion hadn’t left his eyes. “You’re going to find us a proper lair.”

Danny huffed a breath—half laugh, half exasperation. “A lair ,” he muttered. “What are we, supervillains in the making?” But he found himself relaxing at Tucker’s words. He had a purpose. A job. Find somewhere that will keep all of them safe. He could do that. “Sure. I can figure something out.”

Jazz’s face was serious. “I trust you to know what to look for. But remember–you’re in Gotham. Empty warehouses and theme parks are a no-go unless you truly believe no rogues will find interest in them. We need to disappear off GIW’s radar for however long this lasts. And probably stay hidden from the vigilantes of Gotham, too, if we can help it.”

Danny glanced toward the dark ceiling of the laundromat, considering that. “The ambient ectoplasm in Gotham’s thick,” he murmured. “Enough to keep me hidden…”

“...But?” Sam pressed.

He hesitated. “The second I shift, I’ll light up like a flare. Lead them straight to Gotham, and to me.”

That them was louder than the word itself. The GIW. The ghost-hunters. Anyone who thought of ghosts as less than human or animal or the living, but still evil. As though sentience and the ability for evil weren’t so interconnected that they were practically one in the same.

Tucker’s voice crackled through the speaker again, softer this time. “Stay grounded for now, bro. Low profile, no heroics. I know that’s easier said than done, but. Wait at least until we’re there to support you. Sounds good?”

Danny nodded, jaw tight.

Seven days.

He could make it seven days.

He had to.

Chapter Text

The screen finally went dark.

The afterglow lingered, a pale smudge of green on the inside of Danny’s eyelids even after he closed them. The call had ended hours ago—or maybe minutes—but time had thinned again, stretching into that soft, detached state where everything moved but nothing mattered until it did.

He stood.

The laundromat groaned in protest as he shifted his weight, every broken tile and rusted bolt catching sound and giving it back. The wakizashi slid easily into place beneath his coat, a comforting weight.

This time, when he stepped into the cold Gotham air, he wasn’t wandering.

He had a purpose.

Danny slipped through alleys and half-collapsed shortcuts, skimming the edges of Gotham’s bruised underbelly. Flickering neon signs reflected off puddles slick with oil, casting him in shifting hues of red and green.

He nibbled at a pilfered protein bar, jaw working slowly, as he replayed the moment the convenience store cashier had backed away in fear. The way their pupils dilated, how their hand trembled, unsure whether to press the alarm trigger or not—it had fed his core more than the stolen calories ever could. It made shivers run up Danny’s spine, how little his ghost side cared. He felt less human than ever.

His phone buzzed in his pocket.

Group Chat: Phantom Pham

Jazz: The tourists have been weird lately. I’ve heard three separate people talking about rogue attacks and portals to other dimensions.

Tucker: I’m telling you, someone’s clocked onto the portal! Not just the usual GIW patrols. These are professional types. They have equipment we haven’t seen before. 

Sam: The mall’s ghost sensors were replaced by something military-grade.

Jazz: Whoever they are, they’re covering their tracks. I’ve tried three routes and got pinged every time. Can’t tell if they’re new or just better.

(unread)

Tucker: Okay so before we finalize aliases, I gotta ask—Danny, who’s your relative in Gotham? I don’t wanna accidentally out us to your long-lost uncle while making IDs.

Danny paused in his stride, tucking himself into the shadow of a large tree in Robinson Park. His free hand tightened on the wakizashi’s hilt beneath his coat while he glanced over his messages. He tilted his head, keeping one ear out.

Danny: I'm not familiar with anyone in Gotham but my gravestone says Danyal al Ghul-Wayne so whoever is a Wayne maybe?

Tucker: EXCUSE ME???

Sam: WHAT.

Jazz: Wait, like Wayne Wayne?

Danny: ???

Tucker: Danny. Danny. Danny.

Tucker: Bro. BRO. Do you know what this means?? You’re related to Tim Drake-Wayne!! That guy shows up in, like, every tech article. Tech genius, adopted rich kid, vaguely suspicious insomnia.

Sam: Wait. Hold on. That means you’re related to Brucie Wayne.

Jazz: Okay, okay, slow down. Danny, you mentioned your brother made you your grave. Who exactly is your brother?

Danny: his name is Damian

Something in front of him landed with a sharp metal clang, rolling a few feet before coming to a wobbly stop against his foot. A metal pipe?

His eyes snapped up.

His ghost sense hadn’t gone off—but his instincts, the ones Ra’s had drilled into him before he could spell his own name, screamed move.

He leapt sideways just as two enormous shadows lunged past.

Hyenas. Actual, real, snarling hyenas. One skidded to a halt with a delighted cackle, the other snapped its jaws at the pipe like a dog with a stick, slobber flinging from its jowls with each excited shake. The pipe itself was thick and dented, clearly used and re-used, the end of it chewed and scarred from countless games of fetch turned chaotic brawls. Scraps of duct tape clung to one side, and a string of colorful beads wrapped haphazardly near the center, tied off like someone tried to make it a toy—and gave up halfway.

Danny stared, wide-eyed, as the two beasts fought over the… toy? They wrestled in the dirt, paws thudding and claws scraping pavement, growling low and playful. Their teeth flashed, but it wasn’t a threatening display—more like overexcited dogs with far too much muscle and not enough restraint.

“…What the hell,” Danny muttered.

The bigger hyena—broad-shouldered, with a scar over one eye and a wild tuft of fur along his spine—noticed him first. His ears perked, and his manic grin stretched even wider. Instead of growling or lunging, he trotted over, pipe clutched proudly in his jaws, and plopped it right at Danny’s feet.

Danny blinked.

The hyena sat heavily on his haunches, panting happily like a Great Dane. Drool dripped from his muzzle onto the battered pipe. He let out a pleased chuff.

The smaller one, lankier and brighter-eyed, pranced in place beside him. His tail wagged so hard it made his whole body twist like a metronome. He let out a yipping giggle, tongue lolling, before yipping again as if to say: New Friend!!! New Friend!!!

Danny slowly looked from one creature to the other. Neither moved to attack. They just panted eagerly, hopeful for a playmate.

A cheerful voice called out across the park.

“BUD! LOU! Come back here, ya psychos!”

Danny turned slowly to see a woman in red and black running toward them, pigtails bouncing. Something seems just slightly to the left with her, as though she were not quite sane. And the color scheme…

(…Danny hoped she was a jester. Not clown-adjacent. Please not clown-adjacent.)

Harley skidded to a stop a decent distance away, hands on her hips, grinning wide. “Whoops! Hope they didn’t scare ya too badly. They get a little enthusiastic when we play fetch.”

The larger hyena trotted up to her with the pipe still in his mouth, looking extremely proud. The smaller—maybe Lou?—stayed beside Danny, giving him a toothy grin.

Danny wasn’t sure whether to disappear or go on the offensive. On one hand, this was likely one of those infamous Gotham rogues and her two attack-dogs. On the other… he was very used to using his assassin-trained instincts to sniff out danger, and these three seemed fine, just odd.

Well, Danny didn’t have a leg to stand on calling someone odd. Pot, kettle, and all that. Still. 

He didn’t know what Harley saw when she looked at him, covered in his too-big coat with his hood shadowing his face and a jerry-rigged phone in one hand (and his other clutching his wakizashi to his chest under the coat, which had to look odd. But whatever she saw made her pause. Her over-enthused expression softened the tiniest bit.

“You okay there, kiddo?” she asked. “You look like you’ve had a rough week... or month... or year.”

Danny tensed at that. He must have looked particularly shitty if even a rogue was asking after his wellbeing. Still, he took a small step back, turning his body so his side was to her. Making himself a smaller target.

“Uh… Yeah,” he croaked. He swallowed. “They just startled me.”

Harley chuckled. “Well, they got that effect. You’re lucky—they only try ta tackle the people they really like.” She leans down and ruffles the larger one’s mane, cooing at the slobbering grin he gave back. The smaller one, still by Danny, yipped and play-bowed. “Whaddaya say, hon? Wanna play fetch with the boys for a bit? No pressure if ya gotta be somewhere in a minute, but I think it’d make their day.”

Danny hesitated. His eyes flicked between the grinning hyenas and the woman who was casually treating this like any other park hangout. He thought about threats. About ambushes. About how his last few months had been nothing but betrayal, exhaustion, and pain. He thought about how this could be a trap, a trick, a distraction.

Then his shoulders slumped.

He’d been wandering for hours. He hadn’t eaten anything that didn’t come out of a wrapper in days. He was running on fumes and paranoia and a nap in his own coffin. His legs ached. His scar still pulled with every breath.

And honestly?

He needed the break.

So he nodded, slow and wary. “...Yeah. Okay.”

Harley beamed like he’d just handed her a winning lottery ticket. “Atta boy! Bud, Lou—you got a new teammate! Go long!”

The bigger hyena—Bud, apparently—sprinted off in a lope that could snap bones if it hit a human at full speed. Harley tossed the slobbery pipe in a long arc, and Bud launched after it with a joyous whoop. Lou bounced in place like a spring-loaded gremlin before darting after his brother.

Danny watched them go with a mix of disbelief and amusement.

“Oh yeah, just by the by. The name’s Harley Quinn,” Harley grinned at Danny, tilting her head. “What can I call you, hon?”

Danny hesitated a beat too long. “…Zane.”

Harley laughed. "Well, Zane, if you’re hangin’ ‘round here long, feel free to come ‘round every so often. My buds here love having someone new to play with. And hey, if you ever need to disappear a body, I got a guy who does bulk rates. Even throws in a discount for first-timers."

Danny stared at her. "This city’s insane."

Harley grinned with all of her teeth. "Welcome to Gotham, sugar."

They kept playing fetch with Bud and Lou. The hyenas, thrilled by Danny’s attention, bounded and darted like deranged, oversized puppies. Lou tripped over his own paws trying to turn too fast, sending a trash can lid flying into the side of a bench with a loud clang. Bud proudly carried the slobbery pipe like a trophy, parading it back to Danny as if expecting a medal. Harley egged them on with mock cheers and applause, seamlessly shifting into light chatter that veered between friendly and absurd.

As Bud thundered away again, Harley tossed a glance at Danny. "So, I once jumped into a radioactive pit for my ex. Glub glub, chemical romance. Then later, I strapped that same ex to a rocket and hit 'launch.' Best breakup ever."

Danny raised an eyebrow. Was she serious? She had the tone of someone recounting brunch plans. Still, he couldn't help but deadpan back, as though joking: "My adoptive parents are mad scientist ghost hunters."

"Hot damn, that’s rough," Harley replied, unfazed. "I have a stuffed beaver named Bernie. Real sweetheart. He's a little singed and bullet-filled, but he's a great secret keeper!"

Danny snorted, rubbing his temple. He gets hyena slobber on his face. Gross. "I get hunted for sport by a government organization just for existing."

Harley whistled. "Mmm. That's a classic. I lived in Arkham, sugar. Place had a vending machine that basically dispensed hallucinogens. I made friends by kidnapping and psychoanalyzing my own psychologist once or twice."

Danny blinked. "Of course you did."

Harley shrugged, smirking. "He was very supportive. Very stab-free. At first. Though speaking of support, I also once took down a whole mall worth of fake Santas. They had it comin'."

Danny blinked, then broke into a grin. "Good going! Christmas is the worst. I got ghost-Scrooged one year. A bargain-bin Christmas Carol. Thrown into a world story-book style and was forced to listen to rhymes until I admitted I didn't hate Christmas. That was a treat."

Harley winced in sympathy. "Yikes. Well, I ran for mayor once. Someone tried to blow me up, and I didn’t take too kindly to that. Still got the campaign button. Didn't even get arrested for it. Red Hood high-fived me!"

Danny blinked. "I haven't done that, but my godfather ran for mayor, too. Total fruitloop. Obsessed with me to the point of cloning me to get his "perfect son". I mean, I still get postcards from my clone sister from wherever she’s road tripping. "

Harley's face lit up. "Oh! Like my Harley army! I trained a squad of mini-mes. Big on sisterhood. And explosives. Great taste in lipstick, too."

Danny felt laughter bubble out of him. "I once fought an evil version of myself. Alternate timeline. He destroyed the world ‘cause he cheated on a test. Can you imagine? Like fuck that kinda karma."

Harley cackled. "Evil alternates? Sounds like a Tuesday at the Batcave. Speaking of—fought those caped loons in my wedding dress once. My wife left me at the altar—don't worry we figured it out later—but I already paid the deposit, so hey, might as well go full bridezilla on some vigilantes, right?"

"Did you win?"

"Define 'win,'" she grinned. "I left footprints on Nightwing’s face and Batgirl needed a new cape. I call that a success."

Danny snorted, wheezing with laughter. Then: "Any of you ever die and come back wrong?"

Harley raised a hand. "Yup! Killed by my ex. Escaped hell by winning a reality TV competition. Voted fan favorite, too. Still got the crown and everythin’!"

Danny wheezed at that. "That’s amazing. I just got stuck in a different dimension with my whole town and ended up fist-fighting the King of Ghosts. And I fucking won!"

Harley slapped her thigh, delighted. "Nice one, kiddo! I once kicked the actual God of Evil in the face. With a stiletto. Didn’t do too much, since, yanno, God of Evil, but man did it feel good at the time!"

Danny doubled over, hugging his wakizashi to his chest, laughter bursting out in a ragged stream. His vivisection scar throbbed in protest. That reminded him—he straightened, grinning wildly at Harley. "My parents strapped me to a table and cut me open, autopsy-style. They thought they were saving me from possession. Then I woke up in my own grave!"

He giggled, wiping tears from his eyes. Harley just watched him, smiling like she’d seen something precious, something rare and real and hurting but whole.

She raised her hands, waving them. "Alright, alright. You win. That takes the trauma cake. Honey, you are definitely Gotham material. Welcome to the looney bin, kiddo!"

They calmed slowly, laughter ebbing into warm silence. Bud and Lou, exhausted from their chaotic enthusiasm, flopped onto their backs, panting in victory. One lazily rolled over and drooled on Danny’s shoe while the other whined softly in contentment.

Danny hadn’t felt this light in years—maybe ever. The streetlamp buzzed overhead, casting a gentle glow across the cracked pavement and the unlikely companionship blooming there. When Harley reached out and flicked back his hood, revealing the mop of unruly black hair beneath, he surprisingly didn’t even flinch. She ruffled his no-doubt-greasy hair fondly, fingers surprisingly gentle.

“Alright, sugar, I gotta skedaddle before Pam starts worryin’. But you ever wanna come by here again, play with the boys, or shoot the shit? I’m always game for a little trauma-laced comedy. Gotham’s crazy, but we crazies gotta stick togetha, ya hear?”

Danny hesitated, then nodded, voice soft. "Thanks, Harley."

Harley gave him a wink, all mischief and warmth.

"Take care, Zaney. Don’t go too crazy, ya hear?"

Danny nodded silently, watching her vanish into the fog-draped park with her hellhounds in tow.

He exhaled slowly. Wow. That just happened. “…Yeah. Gotham’s definitely insane.”

Danny had been wandering Gotham, continuing his hunt for a safe place to disappear into. It had been a couple of days now—long, cold, fruitless days—and still nothing had felt right. Every potential hideout came with its own brand of risk: too public, too unstable, too occupied. Frustration settled into his bones like the chill of the Gotham wind.

He slipped from street to street, keeping low, hood drawn over his features, coat brushing against alley walls. His eyes moved constantly, catching every shadow, every open window, every too-quiet space.

The first warehouse was too exposed. Rusted girders and shattered skylights offered no protection.

The second, buried behind a fish cannery, stank of mildew and rotten scales. It hosted more squatters than space—narrow-eyed men and hunched women who didn’t want another mouth, another problem, another pair of feet. Danny had stood in the doorway for less than a minute before one of them pulled a knife. He left without a word.

The third was promising—a decaying walk-up with faulty locks and a broken intercom. Faded gang tags covered the front stoop, but the inside was quiet. Dust settled in thick layers across cracked tile and torn carpet. He’d made it to the third floor before the smell of mold hit him. The roof had caved in from disuse, leaving a yawning hole to the sky, and streaks of dried soot trailed from the exposed beams like long-dead veins. Rain would flood it in hours.

Danny stood in the wrecked hallway for a long while, silence pressing in against his skull like the weight of the grave. Then, with a sigh, he turned and kept walking.

Gotham had to have something for him. It had to.

He pushed deeper into the neglected belly of the city. Streetlamps flickered overhead like blinking eyes, and alleyways breathed steam from cracked vents. The air smelled of copper, concrete, and long-evaporated rain.

Then—his breath gasped, crystallizing in the air.

He stopped mid-step. Turned.

Down a narrow alley veiled in shifting shadow, a figure stood still. Just outside the reach of the yellowed lamplight, where movement couldn’t be confirmed.

And then the shadows shifted.

They poured down the brick like velvet smoke, coalescing between the flickering lamplight and the puddles below. The air rippled. The chill deepened, but it wasn’t the dangerous kind. It was old. Settled. Watching.

A figure stepped from the dark, born of it. Not cloaked— composed of it.

She wore a dress of deep black silk, fringed and glimmering, its hem brushing just above her knees. A 1920's flapper dress, beaded with hints of starlight, like the city lights had caught in its seams. Her shoes were dancing heels, scuffed but elegant. Her hair was cut in sharp waves, pinned with a tarnished silver comb shaped like a gargoyle wing.

And her face—

Was obscured. Shifting. Seen only in suggestion. The kind of face you remembered incorrectly even as you looked at it.

But Danny knew.

This was her.

The spirit of the city. The one he had felt in the fog. In the bones of the bricks. In the pulse of Crime Alley.

Lady Gotham.

She inclined her head with the grace of another era—like she’d danced with ghosts long before he was born.

Her voice came without lips moving, slipping into the space behind his ears like a whisper from beneath the floorboards.

“Welcome, Great One, to my haunt.”

Danny stiffened. The words rang like cathedral bells—ancient, respectful, and a little eerie. He said nothing, unsure if he was meant to speak.

Lady Gotham stepped closer, though she never seemed to touch the ground. Shadows clung to her like living lace. They flickered at her heels, curled around her ankles like ink-smoke. Her presence was not oppressive, but vast—like a cathedral ceiling overhead, or a grave you hadn’t realized was yours.

“Be at ease,” she said, fond in an unsettling way. “So long as you do not interfere with my Knight... or our little Bats and Birds... you are welcome to remain.”

The words settled around him like velvet and warning all at once.

Danny swallowed around the cold in his throat and slightly bowed his head—enough to show respect without baring his neck.

“Thank you,” he croaked.

The shadows around her rippled with a sound like silk drawn across stone. Lady Gotham tilted her head, expression unreadable behind the veil of suggestion that cloaked her face. She didn’t blink. Didn’t breathe.

“You have been searching,” she said, more statement than question.

Danny hesitated, then nodded. “I need somewhere to lie low,” he admitted, wrapping his arms a little tighter around his coat. “Someplace quiet. Hidden.”

Gotham’s voice hummed, like wind through cracked windows.

“You seek a haunt.”

The way she said it gave the word gravity, old weight. 

Before he could deny it—he definitely wasn't trying to stay in her city long-term, just until things calmed down—she turned. Her form bled back into the shadows, elegant and seamless, like she'd never been separate from them at all. But her shape remained visible, if barely. Just enough to follow.

She raised one delicate gloved hand and beckoned for him to follow her.

Unable to argue, he stepped into her shadow.

She led him onward. Lights buzzed to life as they passed—neon signs flaring and fading, car horns blaring without drivers. A trashcan clattered violently on its side. The city moved with her, cleared a path as it bent to her will.

Danny drifted after her.

The world around them shifted. Buildings became tighter, older, heavier with memory. Brick gave way to soot-darkened stone. Windows stared with unlit judgment.

Her voice came not from her lips, but from the bones of the city.

"Once, this place was industry. Smoke and heat and labor. Then came trade, underground and wild. They called it the melting pot of ethnicities and crime. You will find many here who are not afraid of death, to cause or to become."

Danny’s skin prickled as the streets narrowed.

The alley opened without warning. A square revealed itself, buried beneath the city’s more honest face. Curved steps led to sunken walkways. Murals peeled from the walls in pastel whispers. Vines grew where they shouldn't. A fountain had long since dried.

She stood at its heart, dark and waiting. Watching him.

“This is Gotham’s Cauldron. I welcome you to make it your haunt, should you wish it to be.”

Gotham bowed her head. “May you find rest and peace here, Great One.”

Then, like smog, she vanished.

The sounds of Gotham returned in soft waves: tires rolling over distant asphalt, distant shouting muffled by brick and steam.

Danny looked around.

He stood before a narrow bar squeezed between buildings that shouldn’t have had room to spare. A flickering neon sign buzzed weakly above the door: Noolan’s Sleazy Bar. The letters blinked in and out of order. The bricks beneath it peeled like burnt skin.

The door slammed open with a bang that echoed down the tight alley. Two figures stumbled out, leaning into each other, laughing with sharp, jagged sounds. Their coats sagged with the weight of concealed weapons, faces flushed with drink and old violence. One dropped a cigarette on the step and crushed it with the toe of a steel-toed boot.

From the shadows, Danny watched.

Through the cracked doorway, he glimpsed more of the bar’s clientele—sleazy figures hunched at sticky tables, muttering deals in low tones. A man with tattoos like snakes down his neck passed a wad of cash to a woman with brass knuckles and tired eyes. Someone in the back laughed too loudly, and the sound was almost drowned by the clink of a glass being smashed.

The place reeked of death and chaos. And for the first time in weeks, maybe months, Danny didn’t feel like an intruder. He didn’t relax, not really—but something in his ghost core flickered, recognizing the chill in the air, the heaviness of unresolved anger clinging to every brick like smog.

Well. Maybe he'll be able to scrounge something up for his Fraid, after all. A proper hideout—what did Tucker call it? A lair.

Danny slipped deeper into the Cauldron, feet silent on crumbling pavement. Pipes hissed overhead and rats skittered in the gutter. He didn’t look back. If he had, he might have noticed something tailing behind him—

Something with eerie yellow eyes.

Chapter Text

A jagged skyline of sagging rooftops and rusted beams loomed over Gotham's Cauldron district. Steam coiled from rust-stained vents, curling into the night air like fog.

High above the alleys, hidden in the shadows, a figure crouched silently at the edge of a rooftop. Her dark armor clung tight to her frame, matte and soundless. A black-and-gold mask concealed her face. She moved like a wraith, breath even and shallow.

Strix.

She watched the alley below.

There—a boy. Hood drawn, coat brushing his legs with each careful step. Something about him tugged at her attention. He moved too purposeful to be aimless. A short sword of some kind, sheathed but poorly hidden, shifted against his chest where one arm held it close.

The boy paused mid-stride. His head tilted.

His eyes lifted to where she hid.

Strix didn't move. Didn't breathe. Her instincts had her frozen like she was prey.

Whatever he sensed, he didn't see. His gaze skimmed over her hiding place without catching her.

He turned and continued on.

Strix shifted back into deeper shadow. Her head tilted slightly, owl-like. Something stirred inside her.

Memory. Training. Obedience.

The urge to bow . To obey .

She clenched her jaw. It was that same terrible pull again—burrowing down into her bones. Something too similar to the command of the Court, but also not. This was something older. Stronger.

It echoed through her very marrow.

The boy was her Grandmaster.

No.

Strix forcibly shook her head.

She was not the Court's—not anymore. They were gone. She was free .

Her fingers twitched near the hilt at her thigh. Her next breath came slower. Sharper.

The boy had disappeared into an old subway access, hidden behind rotted siding and graffiti-choked brick.

Her mask tilted, calculating the risk.

Test him.

She needed to know if he meant to command her—or if she still commanded herself.

Strix drew her blade. Steel sang softly in the air, quiet and clean.

Then she leapt into the dark after him.

The Nasty Burger hummed under flickering lights, most booths empty. The place smelled like old grease and fryer oil.

In a back corner booth, Sam and Tucker sat hunched across from one another. A tray of half-eaten fries and untouched burgers lay between them. Tucker waved a limp fry in the air, mid-rant.

"I just can't believe you sometimes, dude! You should just tell him you like him already!" Tucker exclaimed.

Sam rolled her eyes. "Uh huh. You first. I’ve seen the way you look at him when he laughs."

Tucker flushed. He stuffed the fry in his mouth, chewing loudly and obnoxiously. Sam grimaces at him. She raises an unimpressed brow, and Tucker looks away, rubbing his flushed neck. "You know that’s different! He doesn't like guys, you know. Not to mention the crush I know he has on you! Besides, you’re the one who said it’d be complicated because he’s—"

"He’s hurting," Sam interrupted flatly. "Alone. And currently being hunted down by the government." She pauses, shooting Tucker a look. "He likes guys too, you dweeb. Have you never seen him ogling Dash's biceps before? It's disgusting."

Tucker deflated a little. He couldn't argue with that, because he has seen that. Repeatedly. "Okay, but seriously, you don't think it's weird? Like—what if he finds out?"

"He already suspects. He’s not stupid."

"No, he’s just reckless, ghost-powered, and emotionally repressed!"

Sam smirked. She spears a forkful of salad. "So... your type, then."

Tucker shot her a glare. "You know what, maybe you should talk to him. You’re better at the whole feelings thing."

" Please . He thinks I’m still mad about the thermos incident."

"I mean... you are."

Sam sighed and shook her head, leaning back. Her voice lowered to a murmur. "I...can't. I mean, he trusted us, and we failed him, Tuck. He shouldn't have had to run all alone like that. I hate it."

"It sucks, yeah," Tucker muttered. "I wish there was a way to fix it... Now all of this B.S. coming out of the woodwork because he left on his own, wounded and lonely. I mean, can you even believe it? He has a whole other family we didn't even know about! He’s Damian Wayne’s twin , for Ancients' sake! Talk about straight out of left field!"

Their food sat forgotten. They grumbled at each other, throwing weak barbs back and forth.

They hushed at the chime of the door, welcoming someone inside.

A tall figure approached their table.

Clark Kent stood at the edge of their booth, wearing a simple suit and glasses. His presence was calm, unassuming. His shoulders were oddly hunched, like he was trying to seem smaller than he was.

"Sorry to interrupt," he said with an inviting smile. "I'm Clark Kent with the Daily Planet. I've been interviewing residents of Amity Park about what's been going on lately. May I sit?"

A dusting of early spring snow drifted lazily from the dark Illinois sky, settling over the lawn of Vlad Masters' towering estate. The silhouette of the mansion loomed stark against the night, cold and unwelcoming. Jazz stood at the ornate front doors, rubbing her temple with a gloved hand as her breath fogged the air.

Her earpiece crackled.

"Just tell him you like him already!" Tucker's voice complained, tinny and distant.

Jazz sighed and muted the comm. She had a mission to focus on. She didn't need to listen to Sam and Tucker bicker about their shared crush on her brother... again .

They really weren't subtle. It was getting infuriating. Jazz had taken to daydreaming about throwing them at Poison Ivy and hoping the rogue dusted them with her infamous cuddle pollen the second they made it to Gotham.

All three of them missed Danny, don't get Jazz wrong. But it was like the two of them were getting withdraws. They clearly needed their Danny fix, ASAP.

Focus, Jazz. She shook her head to clear it. 

She pressed the doorbell.

Moments passed, then the door opened to reveal Dani in her human form, bundled in casual winter clothes. Her expression lit up in recognition, quickly shifting to concern. "Jazz? I heard you guys were missing! What’s going on? Where's Danny? Sam? Tucker? Are they okay?"

"I’ll explain inside," Jazz said briskly. "Is Vlad here? I need his help. It’s important."

"Yeah, he’s in his study. C’mon!" Dani grabbed her hand and tugged her inside.

The study was dimly lit, books stacked neatly along the walls. A fire crackled in the hearth, its glow reflecting faintly off the humming ghost tech embedded throughout the room.

Vlad rose from his spot behind the desk, arms folded, expression unreadable.

"The Fenton Portal is a problem," Jazz began without preamble. "It hasn’t been shut down once since it opened a year and a half ago. Now both the GIW and some new group are watching it. Sam, Tucker, and I can’t get close. If Danny’s going to stay free of the GIW’s radar, we need to shut it down. Permanently."

The mention of Danny’s name froze the room.

Vlad slowly sank back down into his chair.

Dani clutched Jazz's arm. "He’s okay, right? Where is he? I need to see him!"

Jazz patted Dani's hand, trying to soothe. "He’s in Gotham. He claims the ambient ectoplasm there is enough to keep him hidden from scanners. But he’s still recovering, and he can’t risk going ghost without tripping alarms. It’s dangerous, Dani. We need to make sure things are handled here before anything else."

Dani’s jaw clenched, but she gave a stiff nod. "Fine. But I’m coming with you when you head to Gotham."

Jazz gave a small smile. "Deal."

Vlad exhaled slowly, rubbing the bridge of his nose. "Jazz, dear. Even if I wanted to help, do you know what kind of defenses that ridiculous house has, especially now the GIW has become a fixture? Sneaking in and out would be a nightmare. Not to mention the political fallout if I’m caught. And if anyone discovers that Daniel and I share our... condition ? It would destroy me, perhaps even literally. Forget it."

Dani stomped forward. She slammed her hands onto Vlad's desk, scattering papers. Her voice was low, cold. "If anything happens to him or anyone else because of that portal, I will make sure you regret it . You know I will, Vlad."

Vlad met her glare with his own. Then, slowly, his shoulders sagged. Guilt flickered in his eyes. Then, he sighed. "... Fudge buckets ," he muttered, turning away. He looked up to the ceiling, clearly annoyed. " Fine . I’ll shut down the Fenton Portal. Give me a few hours to prepare."

Dani and Jazz exchanged relieved smiles.

Progress.

Finally .

The Gotham sewers stretched below the city like a forgotten maze. Mold clung to stone, and the air reeked of mildew, damp concrete, and rot. Steam hissed from broken pipes overhead, echoing through the dark.

Danny moved carefully, boots squelching against the wet stone. His breath clouded in the cold. Something pulled at his core, a tug deep inside him—subtle, insistent. Whatever was beneath the Cauldron tasted like the Realms. Is that why Lady Gotham had brought him there? It tasted like ectoplasm but... wrong . He needed to find it.

If he could turn into Phantom, he would’ve phased straight down to it. But with the GIW hunting him, that wasn’t an option. So, the long way it was. Tedious. If he were Damian, he would have ' tt 'd in impatience. Did he still do that , Danny wondered. He shook the stray thought away.

His ghost sense flickered, but—it was odd. Faint. His breath didn't even fog.

He paused, casting his senses out.

Nothing.

Then—

There!

A blade sliced through the air.

Danny ducked, rolled—narrowly avoiding it. A figure burst from the shadows: masked, silent, deadly. A woman, dressed in all black but for golden accents and lenses glinting in whatever light they could find. She stood poised, deadly. An assassin.

The Cauldron was already odd with its melting pot of Italian mafia, hitmen, and metas keeping themselves hidden and unnoticed. But now assassins ? Lady Gotham certainly knew Danny too well.

What followed was brutal and wordless. She moved like smoke, each strike clean and deadly. Danny responded on instinct alone. No powers. Just muscle memory, old training, and raw awareness.

They tore through the tunnels, crashing into foundations, knocking bricks loose from Gotham’s spine. Danny dodged, slipped through shadows, his coat snapping behind him with each sudden pivot. Water splashed beneath their feet as they sprinted and struck, their footsteps echoing like thunder through the bones of the city.

She drove him into tight corners. He vaulted over broken pipes. She slashed. He ducked. They moved with brutal precision, two forces honed for violence. The air between them vibrated with tension and speed, a symphony of close calls.

Steel kissed stone. Brick crumbled. Somewhere behind them, a wall gave way.

Danny barely had time to register it—he threw himself to the side as she lunged again, blade singing through empty space.

It was a dance neither had choreographed, yet both knew by heart.

Still... Danny narrowed his eyes. This assassin wasn't League-trained, he could tell. She fought with brutal grace, adapting quickly. It wasn't the rigid perfection he remembered from his time in the League.

She shifted direction without hesitation, springing off a wall and coming at him low. He spun, narrowly avoiding a strike to his knees, and countered with a swift kick to the back of her shoulder. She rolled with it, rebounding instantly, and slashed again.

They clashed anew—silent, fast. Strikes rang out like muted thunder. Danny’s heart pounded, but his breathing stayed steady. She wasn’t trying to kill him. Not really. She was testing him.

And he... was curious.

He caught her wrist on a downswing, and for half a breath they locked eyes.

Then she vanished back into the shadows, and he followed, slipping into the dark with her like they were born there.

But now, Strix took the lead.

She moved without sound, aware of his steps behind her, not from noise, but from the way the air changed with his presence. This boy fought like a ghost, slipped through gaps before they existed, predicted angles that shouldn't have been obvious.

She darted low, pivoting sharply between stone arches and rusted pipes, and struck again. His block came instinctively—too instinctively. That kind of grace came from a specific kind of upbringing.

Her strikes tested him more deliberately now. Not to injure. To understand. Each exchange was a question.

And his replies were just as precise.

They moved together again—down another stretch of tunnel, through steam and silence and dust. She pushed. He gave. He pushed back, and she adjusted.

Who are you? she wondered, even before her hands signed it.

Then Strix narrowed her eyes.

His movements were too familiar. Sharp. Refined. A fighter shaped by shadows.

Like Robin.

Like the League of Assassins.

The boy vanished into shadow—then reappeared behind her.

She spun, blade raised—then paused mid-swing.

She stared at him. He stared at her. The air seemed to still between them.

Suddenly Strix could see it: this was just a boy. Too young. Too tired. His shoulders carried the weight of something vast. Some kind of power coiled beneath his skin, restrained. A meta, perhaps? Was he even human?

But it was the exhaustion that really caught her attention.

Not just physical—though there were definitely bruises, tension, and scars old and new.

This was deeper.

A boy with the weight of worlds on his shoulders.

And no one to help him carry it.

Strix lowered her blade.

The boy hadn’t even drawn his blade—revealed during their spar to be a wakizashi. He still held it sheathed, fingers defensive around the wrap that concealed it. Did he not see her as a threat? Or worse—did he feel that primal compulsion, too? The instinct she was fighting not to obey him?

Strix slowly, reluctantly, sheathed her weapon.

Then she signed, slowly and deliberately:

'Who trained you?'

He blinked, parsing the motion. He frowned, leaning back a step. "With you asking that... you already have an idea, don’t you?"

Her head tilted, birdlike. ' Who are you loyal to?'

The boy grimaces immediately at the accusation. Curious . "No one owns me. I refuse to be tethered by anyone. Not anymore."

That struck something in her. Strix, too, refused to be chained down. She was free to fly as she wished. In that way, they were the same, then. She gave a small nod. 'Why are you in Gotham?'

He exhaled. Looked around the cracked stone, the thick silence. "Something here’s calling me. Something old. Angry. I don’t know what it is yet. But it’s here, under the Cauldron. And it feels... familiar."

She watched him, waiting.

After a long moment, she signed: ' Is that your only reason? You share a strong resemble to a certain songbird that flies at night.'

He tensed. A flicker of something—regret? A not-quite-smile touched his lips.

" No . Nothing else. That’s just... ancient history."

She didn’t argue.

But she didn’t agree, either. Something told her that it was going to become important very, very soon.

Then: ' Are you a threat?'

His expression shifted, something sharpening in his eyes. "Is this about how liminal you feel? That undeath rolling off you?"

She straightened. He knew.

The boy rolled his neck, tension crackling through his frame. He shifted the wakizashi closer to his core, fingers curling protectively around the sheath. "I want nothing from you. Or anyone in Gotham." His voice was low. Measured. "I’m just trying to lay low and survive. I swear it."

Strix studied him.

Every instinct of hers screamed caution. But his stance—angled away. His eyes—watching her hands, not for a strike, but for a new demand for answers. His hunched shoulders, his feet angling further and further away. 

He was defensive, not aggressive. Just trying to get away. Not instigating.

She nodded.

She believed him. For now.

HSSSSSSSSSS

Without warning, a loud hiss echoed through the tunnels. The air thickened. A sickly yellow fog began curling in from cracks in the stone, clinging to the ground like a living thing.

Strix stiffened. Above them, faint screams filtered down from the surface.

"That can’t be good," the boy muttered.

The fog swirled around their feet. Strix backed into the wall, her body twitching. Her breathing grew fast, shallow. Her fingers trembled.

The toxin was taking hold.

Flashes stabbed through her mind—ice, scalpels, darkness, a rebirth forced through fire and pain. The Court. The Labyrinth. The blood. Innocents dying by her hands.

She gasped and clutched her head.

The boy's eyes flashed green. He looked at her, then at the gas, and stepped forward.

As the fear swelled around them, he took a long, deliberate breath. The fog stirred, drawn toward him. The yellow vapor seemed to bend as the boy inhaled—and then...absorbed into him.

Gone.

He straightened, calm. His body hummed with odd energy. Scarecrow's fear toxin had no hold on him.

Was this the answer, then? The boy was a meta?

Strix blinked. The panic stalled. Her mind cleared enough for her to tear her backup gas mask from her belt and strap it on. The one in her mask must have malfunctioned during their spar—she scolded herself for failing to notice. She steadied herself on the wall.

Then turned to the boy who watched her, assessing her state. There was concern there, and worry.

She signed, hands still trembling: 'What...are you?'

The boy blinked. He offered her a grim smile. "I'm Danny. Just Danny."

A crackle burst through her comm.    

" All units ," Oracle's voice said, distorted by static. " Fear toxin release confirmed across multiple sectors. Scarecrow assault in progress. All hands, respond! "

Danny’s eyes snapped toward her comm head tilted as he listened, then he turned toward the distant sound of screams and chaos.

He gave her a quick nod, then—

He ran straight into the yellow fog, disappearing like a wraith.

Above, in the Cauldron streets, chaos reigned.

Civilians ran screaming through alleys thick with yellow mist, their silhouettes warped by panic. Some tripped and fell, their limbs flailing as they curled into fetal positions, begging for mercy from horrors only they could see. Others staggered blindly into walls or lampposts, their hands clawing at their own faces as if trying to tear away the visions seared into their minds. The air was heavy with shouts, broken cries, and the sound of feet pounding pavement in blind retreat. It was chaos made tangible—fear distilled into smoke.

And through it all, something moved.

Not Phantom—it was still too dangerous to shift.

But Danny—Danny now had something he could do to help.

He was barely a flicker in the shadows. His eyes reflected eerily through the mist, green on yellow.

He moved from hotspot to hotspot, drawn by the fear. Hungry for it.

He absorbed it.

With each breath, the fog lessened. Panic drained away.

He carried children out of the chaos, shielding them with his coat. He phased the terrified through locked doors into waiting ambulances. He whispered to the inconsolable, letting his aura settle over them like a blanket. He breathed the fear straight from their lungs, and it fueled him to continue on, and on, and on.

To onlookers, he was just a shadow. A flick of the coat, just like that of a cape. A vigilante helping clear the streets of fear and panic. They looked at eyes glowing from the shadows of his hood, and they saw a savior.

Slowly the night passed. The panic calmed. The fear dispersed. Antidotes were given, wounds were treated. Gotham sighed a breath of relief.

The Knight and his bats and birds eventually caught Scarecrow and turned him back into custody. The day was saved.

Danny tilted his head as a figure dropped onto a nearby roof, and he saw the assassin from the subway. The girl in Danny's arms followed his gaze and gasped, delighted. It was Strix, the girl exclaimed. A member of the Birds of Prey! It was an all-girl's hero group, wasn't that so cool???

A vigilante, then, Danny decided. Hopefully an assassin no longer.

Danny slowly turned his attention back to the girl, keeping her calm until the EMTs arrived for her.

Above him, Strix stood motionless on the rooftop, watching closely. She tilted her head, considering the boy. 'Just Danny' indeed.

Her comm still buzzed at her side, but it was merely the birds and bats working on cleanup and gossiping. No longer urgent.

She watched as below, Danny knelt beside a child, murmuring soothing nothings that Strix couldn't hear. Whatever it was, it was keeping the child's fear at bay.

Incredible, the power of this meta.

Dangerous, if Scarecrow or another Gotham rogue found out about his ability.

Strix tilted her head, considering. She should really inform someone about him before he got into trouble. Gothamites were vicious creatures. It was only a matter of time before someone preyed on him, especially if he was innately heroic like it seemed.

Still...

Maybe she would just keep an eye on him for a while, first. After all, if Batman knew a meta such as Danny was wandering his streets... It was either adoption or throwing the boy out of Gotham before he became an issue.

But with how badly Danny looked...he couldn't afford to be kicked out of anywhere.

So, Strix would make sure he stayed in Gotham long enough to recover, at the very least.

After that...only time would tell.

The skyline of Metropolis glowed in the distance, soft and golden beneath the stars. A sharp contrast to Gotham's shadows, the city breathed brightly, its hum lively even in the stillness of night.

High above the city streets, Clark Kent stood alone on a quiet rooftop. The wind pulled gently at his coat. It flared behind him like a cape.

He stared down at his phone for a long moment, staring down at the number keyed into it, considering how he should broach this dilemma. And it was a dilemma. A huge one.

He sighed heavily, fighting the urge to run his hand down his face.

It had been a long two months. Looking for the High King, finding the place he was hurt... The fact that no one had heard hide nor hair of Amity Park before this whole thing started bothered everyone, but especially Bruce. And no wonder—a place with a dimensional portal that powerful beings had the ability to come in and out of at will? And no one from the Justice League knew about it? It was baffling.

Still...while not a ghost from a different dimension, this new issue was going to have Bruce pulling out his hair from guilt and paranoia. He was going to go bald at this rate.

Clark raised his phone to his ear and finally dialed.

A few seconds passed.

The line clicked.

"Bruce," Clark began. "There’s something you need to know."

Chapter Text

The Batcave glowed in cold blues and ghostly greys, its stone walls lit by massive monitors that flickered and pulsed with spectral overlays. The tension in the air was palpable, thick with the kind of silence that only descended when every soul in the room was waiting for something to go wrong.

Heroes from across Gotham—and beyond—gathered under the weight of that silence. Birds of Prey leaned near Young Justice, Red Hood traded nods with Spoiler, and even the Outlaws had found a perch along the cave's higher platforms. The only sound was the soft clink of porcelain: Penny-One, face hidden behind a domino mask, moved between them with the unshakable grace of a man who'd done this a thousand times before.

When he reached Damian, seated at the perimeter with arms crossed and posture razor-straight, he didn't speak. Instead, he offered a simple porcelain cup.

"Thank you, Penny-One," Damian said, quiet but sincere.

As he accepted the tea, his fingers curled around the warm ceramic, and a flicker of something eased in his shoulders. Gratitude, perhaps. Despite everything, Alfred was here. After the butler's death at the hands of Bane, the family had shattered and scattered—each of them grieving in their own brutal ways. Damian had drowned himself in structure, in orders, in solitude.

But now... Alfred had returned. Not unchanged, but here. Present. A steady weight in a cave full of flickering light.

Penny-One’s eyes crinkled behind the mask. He rested a gloved hand briefly on Damian’s shoulder. "My pleasure, Master Robin."

Then he moved on, leaving Damian to his thoughts as the main monitor flared brighter.

Batman stood at the front, flanked by a digital map of the Eastern Seaboard. Red pins, spectral lines, and green pulses traced a triangle from Gotham to Star City and Blüdhaven. It was less a map than a warning sign.

"Two months ago," Batman began, voice gravel-dark and steady, "the High King of the Infinite Realms was injured. He fled to this dimension. The point of entry has been confirmed as Amity Park, Illinois. His likely entrance to this world originates at a spectral portal beneath the property of one "FentonWorks" residence.”

A red pin blinked over the small town.

Damian’s eyes caught just as Batman’s flicked toward him. A glance. Brief. Measured. Then the older man turned back to the screen.

"Since then, Justice League Dark has attempted multiple summoning rites to bring the King forward. None succeeded. But we've managed to triangulate his current position within this sector."

A glowing triangle pulsed in the Eastern United States, surrounding—

Red Hood let out a sharp bark of laughter. "Let me guess. With our luck, he’s hiding right here in Gotham."

Damian remained silent, but his jaw tensed.

Batman didn’t answer. Instead, he switched the screen to a picture of a...house? Somehow, Damian doubted that monstrosity was up to code. "FentonWorks, owned by Drs Fenton and Fenton, is where we have determined the High King fled. The portal to the Infinite Realms is located in its basement. Unfortunately, it is currently under Ghost Investigation Ward, or GIW, control—agents operating under the Anti-Ecto Acts. Any action taken to retrieve what lies beneath would trigger legal, and potentially international, consequences."

Spoiler leaned forward. "And the portal’s still active?"

"Yes," Batman said. "We've witnessed several small entities escaping and being captured by the GIW. Justice League Dark is currently developing a low-conflict retrieval method, but direct action risks consequences until the AEA can be dealt with."

Again, his gaze ticked to Damian, then away. Damian's brow furrowed, confused. What was with Father? It was as though he wanted to say something to Damian specifically, but was holding himself back.

"Wait," SIGNAL said, brows furrowed. "What exactly are the Anti-Ecto Acts?"

Red Robin stepped forward, already pulling up documents. "They’re legislation passed last year. Hidden in agricultural policy. The acts classify any being with a measurable level of ectoplasm as non-sentient. They’re denied rights, personhood, even autonomy."

The cave erupted in murmurs.

"That’s got to be a violation of the Meta Rights Protection Act!" Signal protested.

Batman grunted. "It isn’t. Ectoplasm isn’t classified as a metahuman trait. These laws bypass all protections."

Nightwing raised a hand. "So what is ectoplasm, exactly?"

"The life force of the Infinite Realms," Batman said. "Nearly identical in structure to the metal Dionesium. Lazarus water."

That earned a sharp reaction. The Bat-Family stiffened. Eyes land on Batman, Red Hood, Black Bat—even on Robin. Damian fought not to bristle under the scrutiny.

Red Hood’s lenses flashed green. "Then many of us would be considered non-sentient," Jason growled.

Batman nodded, sending another silent glance toward Damian.

Damian's grip tightened on his cup.

"Justice League Dark has confirmed," Red Robin said, changing the screen again, "that the spectral signature of the High King matches Amity Park’s local vigilante—Phantom."

The screen lit with images. A white-haired teen blazing through the sky. A blur of green shields and spectral blasts. Footage of ghost battles in suburban streets.

"He’s the one who defeated Pariah Dark—the former King of the Realms," Red Robin continued. "Ghosts apparently ascend through trial by combat."

Black Bat spoke softly. "So young."

"He’s probably centuries old, though," Nightwing replied, trying to lighten the mood. "I mean, he's a ghost, right? Ghosts don't age. He could be thousands of years old for all we know!"

Black Bat didn’t answer, just shook her head.

Harley Quinn threw up a hand. "Wait, wait—back up. What’s this about him fighting the old king?"

Red Robin nodded. "Allegedly, during the incident, all of Amity Park was pulled into the Infinite Realms—though no one outside the town noticed, not even JL Dark. Phantom faced Pariah Dark in single combat and defeated him. That’s what earned him the title."

"And would you call that Pariah guy the King of Ghosts?" Harley asked. Her face was thoughtful, like she was connecting dots that the rest of them couldn't see.

Batman’s tone was sharp. "What do you know?"

Harley shrugged, palms raised. "Hey now, don't jump down my throat. I talked to someone—alive, not glowing—the other day, that mentioned that fight—again the kid was alive. To be honest, he was less ghost and more adoption bait—yanno, black haired, blue-eyed, traumatized—"

Batman shot a look at Damian again. Longer this time. Measured.

Damian’s fingers curled into a fist. Tighter–

Batman’s comm lit up with his emergency call tone, hiding the crack of porcelain as Damian's cup fractured under his grip. Penny-One was already there to scoop up the shards, offering Damian a fresh cup with a nod. But Damian's focus was on Batman, who stepped to the side to quickly answer the call.

"Report, Constantine," he barked.

The response crackled with interference. "The portal in Amity—it’s closed."

The room stilled.

"By who?"

"Don’t know," Constantine growled. “Surveillance went fuzzy. GIW’s howling about ghosts attacking, but no one went in or out. The portal just... shut itself down, looks like.”

Batman tightened his grip on the comm. "What does that mean?"

“It means we’re fucked, Bats. JL Dark doesn’t have the juice to open another one. We’ve got no way to reach the Infinite Realms—and no way to stop anything that might already be slipping through. The only way we’re getting that king and any other ghosts back to the Realms is to have them come to us.”

"Unacceptable," Batman growled.

Constantine huffed. “You think I don’t know that? Look, we’ll double down on summoning the High King—see if we can get a power source strong enough to drag him out. He’d have a way to open a new portal.”

“And if we can’t?”

Constantine’s voice scratches with static. “Then we better hope one of your brood finds him first. 'Cause stopping the GIW and saving whatever ghosts they’ve already nabbed is all we’ve got left, and I doubt that'll be enough to save us from war against the Realms.”

Constantine hangs up.

The silence that followed was heavy and uneasy.

"So," Nightwing said, trying for levity, "who’s up for some ghost hunting?"

The groans that followed did little to hide the growing sense of dread.

And in the shadows, Damian sat quiet, the warmth of the tea in his hands a poor shield against the chill climbing his spine.

"YOU DID WHAT?!" Sam’s voice nearly blew out the speakers of the phone.

The light in the room was thin and grey, filtered through a cracked window crusted with grime and time. Dust motes hung in the air like tiny ghosts, and every surface was touched by age. Danny lay curled on a sagging couch, his ratty coat pulled arouns him like a cocoon. His dark hair stuck out at odd angles, haloing a face that had gone far too pale. Sweat clung to his skin in a clammy sheen.

A glowing thermos—half weapon, half lifeline, something Danny made from a tossed Yeti tumbler—rested beside him on the floor. Near it, an empty water bottle and a crumpled granola bar wrapper formed a still life of survival. He shifted with a groan, one hand dragging over his face to rub at his aching temples.

Above the battered coffee table, a flickering holographic call lit up the dim room in faint blues and purples. The connection wasn’t great—grainy screens stuttered and flared—but Sam, Tucker, Jazz, and Dani peered through the haze from Amity Park.

Danny winced. "Okay, first of all, ow. Volume. Second—what else was I supposed to do? People were panicking, kids were screaming—"

"Dude, you weren’t even wearing a disguise!" Tucker flailed onscreen. "What if someone saw you?!"

"You could’ve at least worn shades!" Dani added. "Gotham has, like, three million vigilantes and you’re just—raw-dogging ghost powers in the middle of the street!"

Danny groaned again, tugging his hood down further over his eyes. "Didn’t use ghost mode," he muttered, voice low and defensive.

Jazz leaned in toward her camera, all therapist-concern. "But you still glowed, Danny. We know your Obsession is Protection, but—"

"Exactly!" he snapped, only to wince and clutch his head again. "What’d you expect me to do, not help? I didn’t know I could eat fear until yesterday. And then—"

He trailed off, gagging slightly as nausea rolled up his throat. He grabbed the water bottle, realized it was empty, and tossed it aside with a grimace.

Sam crossed her arms. "Only you would discover you can eat fear and immediately weaponize it to help people."

Danny blinked at the ceiling. Then—despite everything—he smiled faintly. "...Yeah. Guess I did."

For a moment, the pain receded. Something in him settled. His power didn’t feel like a burden just then.

Jazz was already speaking again. "If you’re deadset—"

"Dead-set!" Tucker chimed in gleefully.

Danny cracked a laugh, which quickly turned into a groan as it aggravated his headache. "Nice. Ow."

"Ugh," Sam said, but her lips twitched upward.

Jazz stayed on track. "If you’re going to keep doing this in Gotham, you need a disguise. Something that lets you blend into the vigilante scene."

Danny pushed himself upright with a wince. "No. I don’t want anything to do with Gotham’s vigilantes. I’m not trying to join their bat-themed club, I’m not looking for attention. I just want to stay hidden, heal, and keep the GIW off my back." He slumped again, groaning into the pillow.

"That’s why you need a disguise," Dani said firmly. "If you’re glowing and floating around like it’s Tuesday, someone’s gonna figure it out. And if you’re looking like you —which is to say, like a certain someone with the last name Wayne—you’re basically asking to get found out."

"And if Batman gets curious..." Tucker added.

"Or," Sam said quietly, "if your brother sees you. And realizes who you are."

Danny went very still. Then, muffled into his sleeve: "That’s... not gonna happen. Probably."

Jazz didn’t let it go. "Danny, if you want to help people—and I know you do—you need to protect yourself, too. A disguise gives you distance. It gives you control."

"Plus," Dani said brightly, "it makes you look cool. C’mon. You’re already halfway to urban legend."

"Seriously," Tucker added. "Gotham lives for spooky rooftop weirdos. You’d be a hit."

Danny groaned and let his head thunk against the armrest. "Fine. But I’m not wearing a cape."

Dani gasped, immediately offended. "Why not?!"

Danny didn’t lift his head. "Capes don’t fit my brand."

"Your brand? Since when do you have a brand?" Sam deadpanned.

Danny sighed, dragging his fingers down his face before resting them on his temple. "Hazmat suit, white hair, glowy eyes? People knew what to look for. That was my brand." He sighed, then. "I guess I’m trying to avoid that now, though."

"Yeah, bro. Unfortunately," Tucker said with a shrug. "Hazmat ghost-boy isn’t exactly going to work when you want stealth. You need a brand update."

"You should totally go full Gotham!" Dani bounced where she sat. "Half-mask, maybe glowing gloves? Or like... a cape that does the dramatic flare thing?"

"Function over flair, Dani," Jazz said. "Something practical. Non-reflective. Breathable. No capes. Danny’s right—those things get caught on everything."

"Definitely something distinct but hard to trace," Sam added. "You want people to remember the impact, not the person."

Danny groaned again, this time into his arm. He was too hung over to argue. "Okay, okay. I’ll do it. But I’m keeping my color scheme."

"Color—" Dani blinked. "Wait, you mean black, white, and ectoplasm green?"

"Ghost-chic," Tucker said with a grin.

Sam wrinkled her nose. "You’re not seriously clinging to that radioactive rave look, are you?"

"It’s part of the theme!" Danny protested. "Spooky and memorable. Slytherin for life!"

"Ugh, you are not a Slytherin."

"Am too! Sneaky, resourceful, stylish—"

"You jump headfirst into danger for emotional reasons. Gryffindor."

"Honestly? Sam's more the Slytherin out of all of us," Tucker admitted. "Sorry bro, but it's true."

"Wait, what house am I?!" Dani asked.

"What? No way—she's totally Hufflepuff," Danny said. His head throbbed as he forced himself to think about it. "Loyalty, stubbornness, spooky nature-witch vibes. It totally works."

"Excuse you?! I am not a Hufflepuff," Sam snapped.

"You literally threatened a PTA president for stealing from a charity bake sale. That's peak badger energy."

"I wear black and make cunning life decisions. I am clearly a Slytherin—and you're the one who got saddled with the badger nickname by Vlad, not me. So you’d be the badger if anything!"

"Cunning life decisions? You got detention once for kicking a vending machine."

"Can we all agree Jazz is the Ravenclaw and I’m just vibing in Gryffindor?" Tucker cut in.

"You’re Hufflepuff," Sam and Danny said in unison.

"Hey! I can be brave!"

Danny gave him a fond look. "I love you, bro, but you brought cupcakes to the last rogue fight."

Tucker immediately blushes. Cute, Danny thinks. "Cupcakes solve a lot of things, okay?!"

"You only brought those to impress Ember," Sam said.

Tucker flushed even brighter and sputtered denials. Everyone ignored him.

"Still waiting on mine!!" Dani reminded them.

"Guys!" Jazz clapped to refocus them. "Can we please stay on topic?"

Everyone groaned or chuckled, but the energy dimmed again as Danny curled deeper into the couch, still massaging his temple.

"Worst hangover ever..."

"You overindulged on fear, Danny," Dani said, sticking out her tongue. "Fear. That’s like... the junkiest junk-ghost-food ever."

"It wasn’t just me," he grumbled. "Scarecrow gassed half the city—everyone and their dog was panicking. You try resisting a buffet like that with your core yelling 'free snacks.' Besides, I was helping people! Eating the fear helped calm people down!"

"Helping people or not," Sam said seriously, "now you know you can't eat too much fear without repercussions."

Danny grumbled in response, unable to argue that point. He picked up the glowing thermos and took a sip, the faint warmth of it grounding him slightly, even if all that was in it was water. His fingers scrubbed at tired eyes before he shifted, glancing at the still-flickering holographic call panel.

"How are things on your end? Any progress with the... you know," he asked, voice rough, waving a hand vaguely.

"You mean the whole keeping Amity from imploding? Yeah. That," Sam replied dryly.

Tucker’s grin spread wide. "You’re not gonna believe it. It was kind of epic."

Jazz took over smoothly, like she was delivering a mission report. "Dani and I strong-armed Vlad into helping us break into FentonWorks. She acted as the distraction—threw on a lab coat and pretended to be a GIW recruit gone rogue. Caused a scene at the front while Vlad snuck in through the roof."

"It was awesome," Dani chimed in, positively glowing. "I even punched one of those jerks in the face. He cried."

Jazz continued with a calm nod. "Vlad and Dani handled the heavy lifting—he got them in, and she played distraction. Vlad dismantled the control core, corrupted the primary circuitry, and destroyed every blueprint he could find. Then he collapsed the tunnel structure with his tech. The portal's fried, with no easy fixes for them."

"Of course, it’s not foolproof," Sam added. "Vlad still has his own portal, and we couldn’t stop that."

"But he promised to keep it powered down and secured until things cool off," Jazz finished. "For once, I actually think he means it."

Danny raised a brow, skeptical but impressed. "Huh. Guess even obsessed fruit loops have a couple brain cells when vivisection's on the line."

Everyone but Danny winced.

"A very specific couple of braincells," Tucker muttered with forced levity.

"Like... two. Total. You and me," Dani said, rolling her eyes.

Danny shifted slightly. "Not Mo—Maddie?"

Jazz flinched at the correction, and Danny purposefully didn’t acknowledge it.

Dani crossed her arms. "When one of his Obsessions brutally hurts the other, it was hardly a choice that his Obsession adjusted. I mean, c'mon—the guy's Obsession is Family, as screwed up as it is. You're his son. And Moms don't hurt their kids like Maddie did." She scoffed, scowling. "In his eyes, only Vlad is allowed to hurt his Family. He's weird like that, you know."

"I... see," Danny said slowly, reluctantly.

He didn’t. Not really. But he didn’t ask for more clarification, uncertain if he was ready for the answers. Vlad... giving up on his Obsession with Maddie? After everything they'd gone through? It was impossible to grasp.

Danny snorted and leaned back into the couch, forcibly moving on from that train of thought. "Anyway... Thanks, guys. I know that was hard to do. Also extremely dangerous. So. Cheers, and all."

"You’d do the same for us," Sam said simply.

"He already has," Jazz added, nodding. She turned toward Danny. "How many safe houses are you up to now?"

Danny blinked slowly, then counted off on his fingers. Three, four, five... "Six. Three fully secured, two still need supplies, and one is just... a trap, really. Meant to lure anyone sniffing around somewhere else. I'm sticking to the Cauldron for now—Lady Gotham offered it, and I don't think she'd appreciate me overreaching. Gotta show I'm grateful, y'know? Can't risk setting up shop elsewhere until I know where her boundaries are."

"Ooooh, I wanna meet her!" Dani cooed. "I've never gotten to meet a city spirit on my travels. What was she like?"

Danny stared off for a moment, remembering the unsettling woman made of shadows and screams. "...Intimidating," he decided.

The group chuckled, and the tension eased. The conversation drifted into idle chatter—Dani asking how many trapped ghosts they'd managed to break out of GIW containment ("Six so far, with four more locations mapped"), Sam listing off the supplies they still needed before they could move out, and Tucker proudly announcing he'd almost gotten a working vehicle prepped for a cross-country trip.

Jazz added that, now that the FentonWorks portal was destroyed, they were only a few days out from hitting the road to Gotham.

Danny listened more than he talked, letting the voices of his Fraid wash over him. For a few minutes, the pain in his head eased. The ache in his chest, too. Just a little.

Eventually, though, Danny’s Fraid had to get back to work.

They were about to end the call when Jazz paused thoughtfully. "Oh, and for the record—Danny is Gryffindor, Sam is Slytherin, Tucker is Ravenclaw, and I'm Hufflepuff. Dani, you can join me in Hufflepuff, as the obvious best house in Hogwarts."

"YES! House buddies!!" Dani cheered.

"Wait, excuse me?!" Sam snapped.

"Ravenclaw? Really?" Tucker echoed. He sounded touched.

"Wha—hey!" Danny started laughing.

Everyone burst into noisy, overlapping arguments. The hologram flickered, and the call ended.

Silence settled over the room.

Danny continued chuckling softly for a while, a smile tugging at the corner of his lips. The sound faded slowly, leaving behind the hum of silence. It seemed to press in from all directions, the empty lack of noise from his fraid stark and unsettling.

He yearned to be back with them, not... here. Hurting and alone.

He sat in silence as the beam of light from the apartment window crept across the floor, edging steadily closer to him.

Groaning, he finally forced himself to his feet. Enough beating himself down. He had work to do.

Danny moved through Gotham with his hood up and head down, shadowed by the grime and fog of the Cauldron. He followed the ache in his core—a strange magnetic pull, the same one he'd felt when Lady Gotham first led him to the city. It tugged him downward, beneath concrete and steel, toward something ancient.

He passed rusted rails and broken stairwells, ducked under hanging signs, and stepped over forgotten needles and the occasional rat carcass. Some passages led nowhere. Others opened into dead-end basements, or worse: places with eyes that followed him, the remnants of Gotham's underworld still bartering pain in the dark. Shadowy deals occurred in the corners of cracked subway stations; a gun changed hands here, a scream echoed there. A few thugs muttered threats, but Danny's stare—sunken, tired, hollow in a way they recognized—made them think twice.

Still, no path down.

He tried an alley rumored to open into old Prohibition tunnels. Steel blocked the way. Another corridor led him into a drug den, where a woman cleaned blood off a knife beside a man cackling over pills. Danny turned and walked away.

Temptation struck hard at a locked drainage gate. His fingers itched to phase through. The pull behind it was strong.

But he shook his head. Not yet. Not unless he had no other choice.

He turned another corner—and walked straight into chaos.

A cluster of bizarre figures was making a grand mess of a drug deal. If they were supposed to be heroes, it was news to him.

At the center stood a short man with a beer bottle raised like a sword and a triumphant grin. Others swirled around him: one wearing a lucha mask and trench coat, another dragging a giant window frame, a third leaking from his mask like a failed science experiment. There was a man in nervous gloves accidentally singeing the air, a French baton-twirler dueling shadows, a twitchy man vibrating on the spot, and a silent welder with a leash-tangle cart of scrap behind him.

Danny blinked. Took a step back.

Whatever that was, it was above his pay grade.

He made a wide arc around them and moved on.

Eventually, he found it.

A tunnel, half-buried in rubble and muck, whispered to him. The pull in his core intensified.

Danny hesitated, then squeezed through the jagged opening and slipped into the dark.

The descent was endless.

The air grew stale, less oxygen with every footstep. The walls pressed close, dripping condensation and old soot. Danny barely noticed. His ghost sense stirred, guiding him, the way it always did when something "wrong" festered nearby.

Heat gathered slowly. The deeper he went, the more the temperature rose, humid and suffocating. The scent hit next—sour rot mixed with brimstone and battery acid. It curled in his lungs.

The slime marked the path. It slithered down walls in glowing veins, pooled in shallow puddles, and hummed with sick energy. Danny pressed his coat sleeve over his nose and pushed forward.

The tunnel opened.

The cavern was vast, carved deep into Gotham's bones. In its heart, a Lazarus Pit churned.

It boiled like a wound.

Vapor hissed into the air, dense with power and decay. The Pit glowed vividly, casting molten light against the cavern walls. It stained the stone. It stained the air.

Danny stood on the edge.

His reflection shimmered in the surface—pale, sharp-featured, eyes glowing faintly with ghostlight.

The memories hit like a blow.

Incense smoke, curling through sandstone halls. Mantras murmured while blades flashed. The constant hum of danger, always ready to bloom into violence.

He remembered the Pit, the one Ra’s al Ghul guarded like a god. Talia’s silence, her eyes like cut glass. The constant ache of failing. The punishment of being second-best.

Then softer things.

A red mask. A rough voice referencing classic English literature. Scarred hands ruffling his hair. An unnamed man who taught him to cheat, to fight dirty, to grin and win anyway when his blade missed its mark.

And he remembered Damian.

Green eyes, too serious for a boy that small. A partner. A rival. A brother.

He remembered bloodied hands gripping his own tight, a mission gone bad, Damian pressing their foreheads together and whispering,

"Ahki."

Brother.

Danny hadn’t let go of that memory, even after the ocean and time stood between the two of them.

He blinked, throat thick.

The Pit hissed. Bubbled. Waited.

"I’m not that boy anymore," he told it.

The Pit didn’t care.

Danny lingered at the edge of the pit, the green light flickering across his tired face. Then, with a weary exhale, he turned and sat on a nearby rock. It was cold despite the oppressive heat in the air, the stone damp with condensation. He leaned forward, elbows on knees, and buried his face in his hands.

He breathed. In. Out.

Now what?

He had followed the call. The pull in his core had dragged him down here, away from safety, away from rest. To this pit, this festering scar in the earth. But what was he supposed to do now that he had found it?

He didn’t have an answer.

So he sat. And listened. And thought.

The minutes stretched. Time passed unnoticed in the depths.

Finally, Danny pushed himself upright. He approached the pit slowly, each step deliberate. The heat increased, sweat beading on his brow. His heart beat faster.

He crouched at the pit’s edge, leaning in. The bubbling ectoplasm hissed and popped, a sound like whispers just out of reach. The smell was worse up close: sulfur and memory of times long past. It clawed at the back of his throat.

Danny stared into the depths.

And, like the impulsive idiot he was, he stuck a finger in.

He winced, waiting for the backlash—the pain, the burn. But it didn’t come. The pit… accepted him?

The corrupted ectoplasm curled over his finger, slid across his skin. And something deep in his core shifted. It pulled. It filtered. Slowly, steadily, Danny’s core absorbed the sludge and transformed it. The tainted glow around his hand began to fade.

A small pocket of purified ectoplasm gathered just below his finger—clear and light, pulsing softly. The corrupted sea retreated from it, leaving a perfect orb of clean energy suspended like a pearl.

Danny blinked, astonished.

Then he burped. Loudly.

A stream of black mist escaped his mouth—thin and oily, like ink bleeding through water. It curled upward, writhing for only a moment before vanishing into the thick air.

Danny grimaced.

"Okay... gross," he muttered.

But his core felt clearer. Lighter.

The purified ectoplasm brightened slightly, resisting the decay around it. Danny pulled his hand out and watched the clean energy float above the pit’s surface, shimmering.

It refused to sink, repelled from the corruption like oil to water.

He watched it for a long moment. Then he realized something.

His headache was gone.

He wiped his hand on his coat and stared down at the Lazarus Pit. At the vast corruption. At the pinprick of purity he’d made.

Now that he knew it was possible, there was only one path forward, wasn't there?

Ugh. This was going to take forever.

Sighing, Danny cracked his knuckles. "Well... might as well finish what I started."

It was well past midnight when Danny finally crawled up from the underground, fingers curling over the rusted lip of a sewer grate. His shoulders ached, his limbs trembled with overuse, and his coat clung to his frame with damp grime and condensation. But the thermos tucked against his side pulsed warm—faintly, steadily—with purified ectoplasm. That made it worth it.

His boots landed with a squelch on cracked pavement. He blinked up at the sky, chilled by the dry Gotham air. Each breath tasted of sulfur and sweat, and something fouler still—corruption, clinging to the back of his throat like oil.

“Still better than cafeteria meatloaf,” Danny muttered hoarsely, stumbling into the nearest alley. He pressed his back to the brick, slid down until he was sitting with his head thrown back, panting softly. His core buzzed like static—overloaded, burning hot and cold at once.

Too much energy. Too much ectoplasm. Too much of everything.

But he’d done it.

A Lazarus Pit. Purified. A feat he hadn’t even known was possible for someone like him. Take that, Grandfather.

And better yet, he had a supply of pure ectoplasm to show for it.

“If I jerry-rig a few more thermoses,” he said, grinning breathlessly to himself, “I could stretch this out for months.”

Liquid ectoplasm didn’t last long in the living world—it broke down, evaporated, returned to the Infinite Realms—but stored properly, cooled and sealed, it could be preserved. He could eat. Really eat. Not just feed off fear and ambient ecto in the air, but properly replenish himself.

It beat the hangover he’d woken up with that morning, by miles. ...Or was it yesterday morning? It was impossible to tell without seeing the stars, and Gotham was too smog-filled and light-polluted to see anything but inky darkness above.

Danny laughed under his breath and slumped further down the wall. He was half-delirious, sore, and completely exhausted—but for once, he had a plan.

And a win.

He stayed there for a while, just breathing. Letting Gotham’s lullaby of sirens and shouting and distant traffic wash over him.

Eventually, he pushed himself up with a groan. He had to get to one of his hideouts. Rest. Store the ectoplasm. Get his feet back under him.

But just as he took a step—

His core perked up.

Danny paused, mid-step, heartbeat slowing. The hum of energy in his chest shifted. A pulse. A pull. Like the one that had led him to the Lazarus Pit.

But different.

He recognized this feeling. It was on the tip of his tongue, but he couldn't think of the words, the memory, that tugged currently at his senses.

He turned instinctively, gaze scanning the shadows. Then he moved, boots whispering against the street, following the thread of sensation like a bloodhound.

The tug led upward—fire escapes, windowsills, iron gutters slick with condensation. Danny climbed until he stood on Gotham’s rooftops, the sky stretching dark and endless above.

Then he saw him:

A figure, draped in black and red, green and yellow, watching the street below.

Robin.

Danny dropped into a crouch behind a rusted ventilation unit, his breath catching.

That stance. That posture.

His core hummed, unbidden. Resonating.

It wasn’t ghostly, exactly. It was liminal.

Familiar.

And then—like a puzzle piece snapping into place—Danny remembered the echo. The one he’d felt deep underground, six feet under, curled beside a grave carved with his name. That echo had reached through dirt and death to call to him.

A proto-core.

Damian.

Damian had sat by Danyal’s grave.

Damian was Robin.

Danny swallowed, throat tight. It made sense. Mother had told them Father was the Bat of Gotham. If Damian had made it to Gotham, been accepted into the family, then of course he’d become Robin. Batman's partner.

He stared, emotions warring in his chest. Pride. Grief. Jealousy, too. Danny couldn’t tell which was stronger.

Robin was sharp and poised. Controlled. A living weapon honed to a deadly point.

Phantom had been awkward chaos in a hazmat suit.

But both of them stood in shadows for the sake of others. Both of them carried pain in their bones.

And somehow, against all odds, Danny felt proud.

Damian had grown beyond Grandfather’s oppressive shadow.

He could fly free.

A flicker of movement caught Danny's eye.

Another figure landed beside Robin with barely a sound. Taller. Broader. Blue stripes cutting sharp angles into a black suit.

Nightwing.

Danny's focus sharpened. Even without his ghost form active, he could hear them—voices low against the rush of wind.

"You're still benched, y'know," Nightwing said, voice teasing. "If B finds out you're out here..."

"Let him," Robin muttered. "I’m not made to sit idle. Crime doesn’t pause because Father says I need punishment."

"It’s not punishment, Little D. You got stabbed. That usually warrants at least a few nights off."

Danny raised his brows. So Damian was benched. Stab wound, huh? Knowing his brother, whoever managed that likely didn’t walk away unscathed. Still, it was oddly comforting. Damian clearly hadn’t gone soft.

And... Little D?

Then his thoughts caught up with him.

If Damian was Robin... then Nightwing had to be someone close. A brother, maybe. A mentor. A member of his Fraid—wait, no. Family. Family was the word.

But still, it lingered. The closeness. The way the older man stood at Damian’s shoulder, relaxed. Trusted. Unflinching.

No one got that close to Damian, not without getting stabbed. Just who was Nightwing to Damian?

Danny watched, wary and fascinated.

"What’s wrong, baby bat?" Nightwing asked, quieter now.

"Nothing," Damian said. Short. Sharp.

"Uh-huh. Try again. I know you too well for that."

Damian tt 's. "Father was acting off this morning," he muttered. "During the meeting. He was... hiding something, from me specifically. I could tell."

Nightwing straightened slightly. "Hiding something? Like what?"

"I don’t know. That’s the problem. His tells were all over the place."

"Huh," Nightwing said, arms folding. "That’s not like him. Especially not with you."

Damian hesitated. Then, softer: "No. Not with you. With me, he hides things all the time."

Nightwing sighed. Not annoyed—more like he was disappointed. "Yeah, alright... B still isn't great at communicating. At all. I mean, he’s come a long way since I was Robin, but... yeah."

Then—quiet, almost too soft to catch—Damian whispered, "You would have never kept secrets like that when we were partners, baba."

Danny blinked, stunned.

Baba?

The word hit harder than it should’ve.

He used to call Jack Dad with the same kind of vulnerability. Like the word meant safety, care, love.

Before the portal. Before everything went to shit.

Now, hearing that same tone in Damian’s voice, hearing that kind of trust... something green and ugly curled hot in Danny’s chest.

Jealousy? Grief for trust lost?

Maybe both.

Nightwing’s voice gentled. "You’re right, baby. He’s not good at this. But you deserve the truth." He slung an arm around Damian’s shoulder, tugged him close. Damian allowed it. Didn’t flinch. Didn’t even bristle. "I'll talk to B, see if I can get anything out of him, alright?"

Danny’s heart ached.

As they kept talking, Danny edged along the rooftop, seeking a better vantage point. He tucked low behind the brickwork, shadows swallowing him.

Robin’s cape shifted with the breeze, pulling Danny’s eye and tugging his attention abruptly from his jealousy. The whole suit moved like an extension of him—fluid, exact. Armored where it needed to be, flexible where it mattered. The "R" caught a flash of light and gleamed, iconic.

It fit Damian like a second skin.

Danny’s gaze flicked to Nightwing, and...well. Not that much like a second skin.

Seriously, was that... spandex?

Was there seriously no armor on that guy?

And the way it clung, especially to the guy's ass—Danny blinked, looked away fast. His face felt hot against the chill of the night. Whew. Talk about obscene!

Absolutely not the point.

Still. That was Damian's chosen baba? There had to be quite the story behind that...Danny found himself itching with curiosity.

Ancients, what a brave new world Danny lived in.

Robin's cape fluttered again in an updraft, catching Danny's gaze again. Then, unbidden, a memory surfaced. Earlier that day. Sam and Tucker bickering. Jazz trying to referee. Dani laughing.

They’d been arguing about disguises.

About Danny cloaking himself in something new—something that wasn’t Phantom.

Hm, maybe...

...It was a terrible idea. Reckless. He'd 100% get himself in trouble for it.

Dani would love it.

Danny grinned.

Maybe he’d indulge her. Just this once. It was a big brother’s job to spoil his little sister, after all.

No other reason. None at all.

On a completely unrelated note, he needed to find himself a cape.

Chapter Text

Danny was filling his thermoses with ectoplasm when everything started. He should have, in retrospect, noticed that something was wrong immediately, but he'd been in Gotham all of a few days by that point. He was distracted, tired, and lonely.

So when the blob ghosts came up to him, chittering in greeting, he didn't think to wonder where they'd come from. 

“Hey guys!” he said, his core perking up and purring back at the blobs. He holds out his hands, now free of thermoses, and the little ghosts immediately reach for him for pets.

There are three of them, the largest barely the size of a baseball. They wriggle in his grip, fighting for attention. Danny's core warms at their enthusiasm. 

“Hey now, no need to fight! Plenty of me to go around,” he tells them, laughing. One immediately moves to nestle in his hair, purring in content. The other two cuddle close to Danny's core, delighted with his own purring.

He stuffs the last of the filled thermoses in his thigh and stands, hands full of buzzing blob ghosts. His last interaction with a fellow ghost had been Lady Gotham, and while welcoming, she hadn't been exactly personable. 

With one ghost nestled in his hair and two hidden in his hoodie, still purring like tiny engines, Danny exits the chamber, footsteps echoing into the tunnels beyond.

His mind wandered as he walked, thinking back on the conversation he'd had with his Fraid the day before. A costume, a disguise, was the only way for Danny to continue going out to fulfill his Protection Obsession without accidentally outing himself and potentially bringing in the GIW. But he didn’t have gear. No armor, no tools, not even a proper mask to hide his face. Gotham’s shadows didn’t play fair, and while he technically could phase through walls and turn invisible, there was always that chance that he would use too much energy and ping the GIW's radar. So that meant supplies. And that meant... money. Which he didn’t have.

A sigh escaped his lips. He paused at the base of a rusted ladder that stretched upward toward a dim shaft of light. Glancing back down the corridor, he watched the purified Lazarus pit pulse with radioactive green. The blobs churred, nuzzling him, attuned with his emotions.

He could always ask Sam, he supposed. She was always happy to use her parent's money to help her friends. And Tucker would definitely have a way to transfer funds directly to Danny. He could have hundreds, if not thousands at his fingertips within days.

But... could he ask that of them? When they were already so busy taking care of Amity Park? When they were already planning on upending their lives to join Danny in Gotham, homeless and vulnerable?

He shook his head, gripped the first rung of the ladder in front of him, and began to climb.

No. He couldn’t ask more of them. He needed to find a different method.

The blobs’ purring quieted as Danny breached topside, the smog of Gotham’s day hardly any brighter than the catacombs below. Danny was so preoccupied with his thoughts that a feather floating to the ground caused him to jump.

Danny paused. Took a breath. Looked up.

High above the gothic architecture, a vulture was coasting on thermal vents. It spun, wings held like gliders, beady eyes surveying the ground for roadkill.

Danny sighed, rubbing his aching chest scars. The blobs in his hoodie grumbled at the movement.

A normal, mortal vulture. Feathers black and glossy, not green and wearing a red fez. Alive.

But still, that reminded Danny:

There was one more person he needed to call. To question. To confirm all of the things his Fraid had told him the day before.

He needed to call Vlad.

He really wanted to put it off, but… Well. It wasn’t like he could do a whole lot without a costume. He already had his safehouses set up and armed. He had his Gotham-approved territory. He was basically just waiting on his Fraid to join him.

Maybe, just maybe, if what Dani said was true, Vlad might even be Danny’s solution to his costume problem.

The call goes a bit like this:

“...Little badger?”

“Hey, V-man. Been a while. How’s Dairy King?”

There’s a long pause. Danny fights not to fidget. He’s sitting in his most secured safehouse, bottles of ectoplasm glowing faintly in a semicircle around him. The blobs, content to just cuddle up to him for the time being, purr softly. Though one is starting to inch toward one of the thermoses, sensing the ecto inside.

Vlad eventually sighs. It’s a startlingly tired and defeated sound, considering the fruitloop. Danny straightens his slouch, zeroing in on his audio-only call.

“Daniel—”

“Dan yal ,” Danny corrects reflexively, putting emphasis on the difference.

Vlad pauses again. 

Danny fidgets, scooping up the blob ghost trying futilely to open a thermos. He presses his cheek into the ghost. “Sorry. Just. It’s been a long time since I heard my real name, yanno? Then I come to Gotham and I see it on a headstone… My headstone.”

Vlad sucks in a sharp breath. “You have a grave in Gotham ?”

Danny chuckles, feeling just as disbelieving as Vlad sounds. “I know, right? I had no idea my brother cared that I quote-unquote “died”. But. I mean. It’s nice? To be remembered?”

Vlad takes a minute. Danny can hear shuffling on the other side of the line. The man clears his throat. “Well. Obviously you would feel that way. A ghost cannot rest properly without a Resting Place, as you well know.”

Danny paused, letting the capital letters of the title wash over him. “Um. No? I don’t know? When was I supposed to know?”

Vlad sighs. “Right, yes. Ghosts don’t share anything. It’s all instinctual for them, so they have no reason to think that we half-alive ghosts wouldn’t know. Typical.”

Danny huffs, getting a little peeved. “But you do?”

“Obviously,” Vlad snaps. Danny could practically hear Vlad’s eyeroll over the phone. “No wonder you’ve been so testy. Not only are you a hormonal teenager , you’re a hormonal teenager with Restless Dead Syndrome. Why hadn’t I thought of that before now? So many outbursts… It all makes sense now.”

“Hindsight and all that,” Danny drawls, scowling into his phone.

“Quite,” Vlad snips back. “Now. Was there a reason for this call, or was it just to test my patience, Dan-YAL ?”

Danny cringes at the pronunciation, but wisely keeps his mouth shut before he blurted something that would make Vlad hang up on him. There was a reason Danny called, after all. “...Was it true, what Dani said?” Danny asked, almost hesitant.

“Why, I wouldn’t know,” Vlad said. “What exactly did my lovely daughter tell you?”

Something in Danny’s core purred hearing Vlad’s claim over Danny’s clone. To hear the Claim in Vlad’s voice, that Dani was part of his Fraid. It settled something in Danny to hear it. After all, Dani was basically Danny’s baby sister, clone or not. “Just. She said you… I mean…”

Danny could almost hear the raised eyebrow at the boy’s stuttering. “Eloquent, Danyal.”

Danny rolled his eyes. “Okay, okay! Dani said you’re no longer Obsessed with my mo—with Maddie.”

Vlad is silent on the other end.

Danny digs his cheek harder into the blob, causing it to grumble and chirp at the handling. Danny forces himself to let go of the ghost. It stays attached to his cheek, molding against him like oobleck, purring loudly now to offset Danny’s Upset. The other two blobs stir at the noise and join in, until Danny is practically vibrating with blob purrs.

Danny giggles, then gasps. “Ah, that tickles guys—I mean!” Danny straightens, forcing his attention back on his phone. “Dani told me that after what they…did. You renounced your love for m—Maddie.”

“Yes,” Vlad said slowly, drawing out the word. “That is what I said.”

Danny’s core clenches. “And is it true? What you told her?”

Vlad takes a deep breath. “Danie–Danyal.”

Danny freezes in place, holding his breath.

“You know that we and Dani are the only of our kind. You are aware of the Obsession I hold for you.”

Danny scoffs because obviously .

Then… nothing.

“...And?” Danny asks.

“And what?” Vlad responds, sounding like butter wouldn’t melt in his mouth.

Danny bites back a growl. He launches to his feet, the blob ghosts flung every which way with squeals. “ You know what, you—! Your Obsession with my—with Maddie has always been greater than your Obsession with me! What changed? You really expect me to believe that after everything something bad enough happened that switched off your Obsession to her?! Do you even know how insane that sounds!” By the end Danny is shouting into the receiver of his phone, clenching the device so tightly cracking sounds start coming from it.

“Danyal,” Vlad says, sounding infuriatingly calm now. Danny huffs, chest twinging with phantom pains from the reminder of all of the suffering he went through at the hands of Vlad’s so-called “previous” Obsessions. “Maddie was not my Obsession. Just as you are not my Obsession.”

Danny blinked. “Huh?” He pulls away his phone and stares at the hairline cracks now adorning the glass and casing. He puts it back against his ear. “You… huh ?”

Vlad chuckles almost too quietly for the phone to pick up. “Just as your Obsession isn’t Amity Park or the people you protect, my Obsession isn’t any one individual. Just as yours is Protection, mine is Family, Danyal.”

Danny slowly deflates. The trio of blobs float closer to him hesitantly, chirping in worry.  “...And that means?”

Vlad sighs again. “It means, Little Badger, that my Obsession with Maddie stems from when I died in love with the idea of her. Of the idea of a complete family of a wife and the children we could raise together. But when she hurt you…well.”

“She’s hurt me before and you’ve never cared,” Danny whispers. “ You’ve hurt me before. Hurt me. Hurt Dani. Even Maddie.”

Vlad is silent for a moment. “Yes,” he admits. “And you are fully aware why I hurt you, Danyal, so I won’t rehash what you already know. But Madeline… I believed I could change her. That she could see past Jack’s foolish ghost-hating rhetoric. But this… Even I could tell that there would be no changing her mind after this.”

Danny swallows, his free hand clenching a handful of his shirt directly over his jagged vivisection scarring. The blobs cuddle close to his core again, fighting off his emotional pain with their core pulses of safe safe safe. He twists his mouth up, fighting the tears that want to form. “...What happens now, Vlad?” he asks, quiet.

Vlad hums on the other end of the line. “Well, Jasmine has informed myself and Dani that she and your Fraid plan on heading to you as soon as their business in Amity Park concludes. As for myself, I plan on quietly removing myself from my position as Mayor and returning to Wisconsin. I don’t know yet if I will leave a duplicate behind to perform my political duties or not. Perhaps not, with how scrutiny seems to be getting worse. Both the Ghost Investigation Ward and that Justice League…it’s far too much excitement for my tastes. I will be shutting down my Amity Park portal for good and returning to my Haunt. A sabbatical, if you would.”

Danny rolls his eyes. “I wouldn’t, actually,” he quips.

“Hilarious,” Vlad responds drily. “Now. Was that all, Danyal?”

Danny pauses, because. Should he mention it? After all, Vlad was…well, Vlad. Asking for anything was just begging for stipulations and conditions and paying him back with interest . Was it worth it? Perhaps it would be better to ask Sam and Tucker after all—

“That’s your thinking silence,” Vlad drawls, now sounding amused. “I can practically hear the rust as the cogs turn.”

Danny scoffs. “Now who’s hilarious,” he grumbles.

“Always,” Vlad says, smile in his voice. “Now, out with it, Danyal. It’s not like you to be so hesitant with your demands. One might even get the impression that you’re learning manners, Little Badger.”

“Oh, fuck off!” Danny snaps, huffing. He folds his free arm, careful of the trio of blobs continuing to purr against his chest. “Listen. I need to fulfill my Obsession in Gotham. But I can’t be identified. I already got too close once the other day.”

Vlad hummed. “Of course. You need a disguise. What’s stopping you from getting what you need using your ghost side, exactly? Easy enough to fritz some cameras and sneak in and out invisible.”

“The ambient ecto in Gotham is only enough to hide me in my human form,” Danny admits. He scratches his arm, debating how much to admit to the fruit loop. Then: “Dani was really excited about me wearing a cape. But vigilante-grade material isn’t exactly easy to come by.”

Vlad hums. “Send me the schematics of what you’re wanting,” he says. “I can have a vulture ghost bring you the completed fit by tomorrow, depending on complexity. Then have the vulture make a false trail towards Metropolis. Easy enough to accomplish.”

“...What do I have to do in return?” Danny asks, worried.

“Can’t handle an IOU, Danyal?” Vlad teases.

Danny growls. “Not from you, you Fruit Loop. I know you. I’m not leaving myself in debt to you, Family Obsession or not.”

“Yes, yes. Alright, Little Badger. You’re lucky I’m feeling charitable.” Vlad is silent for a moment, obviously thinking. “Alright. What I want: Protect your sisters while they’re in Gotham.”

Danny blinked. “...I was already going to do that?”

“Do you want me to come up with something else, Danyal?”

“No!” Danny yelped. “No, that’s perfect! Protect my sisters in Gotham! Of course I can do that in exchange for a vigilante costume! Great exchange, very even payment, definitely something I can do for you or whatever!”

Vlad sighs long-sufferingly.

Danny’s face burns hot with embarrassment.

“Send me the designs, Danyal,” Vlad finally says. “And stay safe.”

“...Yeah, okay,” Danny squeaks. “Thank…you?”

Danny blinks and pulls the phone away from his ear. Vlad had hung up on him.

…Well. Jokes on Vlad! Because Danny was definitely searching whatever Vlad made with a razor-thin comb for bugs and trackers within an inch of its life. So! Take that, Fruit Loop!

Danny would definitely get the last laugh in this! He would !

The blobs on his chest seemed to giggle at Danny’s flustered state.

High above the Batcomputer, cloaked in shadow, Damian Wayne crouched motionless. He balanced on a support beam nestled among the stalactites, cape drawn tight, all but invisible to those below. His breath was shallow. Controlled. His ears were trained on the conversation unfolding beneath him.

Below, Richard stood with his arms crossed. His words weren’t discernable—not from this distance—but his tone said enough. Each sharp gesture, each frustrated jab of his hand toward the Batcomputer, painted the picture clearly. He was demanding answers.

Father stood across from him, posture rigid, arms behind his back in that annoyingly composed way of his. Bruce said nothing. The silence was more grating than raised voices. Richard paced a few steps, threw his hands up. Still, Bruce remained still, a quiet stone in the storm.

Damian’s grip on the beam tightened.

He had hoped to finally learn something—anything—about what had been behind those pointed looks his father had sent him at the last meeting. But it looked like that hope had been futile. Father was as tight-lipped he always was when it came to the secrets he felt best to keep from his allies, even his family.

At least Richard was on Damian's side.

Not that it meant anything against the wall that was Batman. Just the rising heat of Richard’s frustration and Bruce’s stone-faced silence, battering over and over against an invincible shield.

It reminded Damian of moments he’d never expected to apply to himself—of patrols where he’d overheard strangers arguing in alleyways, of half-finished sentences caught in the wind while waiting on rooftops, of anecdotes from Jonathan about his parents arguing, voices raising until they were yelling at each other. It reminded him of whispered conversations at school, of classmates accidentally revealing truths their families never intended to share. Of all the times he’d been the outsider who heard everything, and yet understood nothing.

It reminded him of two parents arguing. His Father and his Baba. Two forces that should never have to oppose each other like they were in that moment. A pain in his chest twinged, and he fought not to flinch. A phantom pain, he knew. An emotional pain, Jonathan would have explained to him.

His jaw clenched. Whatever Father was hiding, it wasn’t just important—it was personal. And Damian could feel it, thrumming under his skin like a held breath. Whatever secret he had, it had to do with both Damian and Amity Park. But what could it possibly be? Damian had never heard of Amity Park before all of this Ghost King nonsense.

The conversation below descended into quieter tension. Richard shook his head, exasperated, and Bruce turned back to the monitors.

Damian narrowed his eyes. He would find out the truth himself.

One way or another.

The cave’s shadows swallowed him easily as he slipped from his perch and disappeared into one of the side corridors. He needed to burn off steam. His fists ached for something to hit, his mind too sharp with frustration to sit still.

The stab wound from last week was mostly healed. It pulled at the skin when he twisted wrong, but it didn’t slow him down. Bruce’s scolding from the night before about pushing too soon after an injury had gone in one ear and out the other.

Please. Baba wouldn't have benched Damian. He would have taken it easy with Damian, like partners should.

Damian was ready to patrol. Batman couldn't tell him what to do.

Moments later, the roar of his motorbike echoed out of the hidden cave entrance and into the dying daylight.

The Gotham dusk welcomed him with smog and copper-red skies. The city stretched wide and uneven, spires and antennas clawing toward the clouds. It was sickly, unnatural—and beautiful in its own right.

Damian’s grip on the handlebars tightened, knuckles white under his gloves.

It soothed something in him, the wind pulling at his cape, the glow of streetlights flickering to life below. Here, on the road, under the sky—he could breathe.

While cruising through the tangled streets, a sudden burst of static crackled in his comms.

"—Robin, come in— zzzt —status upda— zzzzz —"

The interference worsened, a constant white noise scraping at his ear. Damian winced, tapped at the comm, then muted the channel entirely.

He needed to think.

Then something caught his eye. A green blur on a distant rooftop, massive and fast.

Damian narrowed his gaze and slowed. The blur resolved into a hulking, ghostly dog circling anxiously atop a weathered apartment building. It sniffed the air, paced in agitated circles, then barked—a low, echoing, mournful sound that sent chills down Damian’s spine.

It was a ghost. A dog ghost.

Fascinated, he kept his distance but followed. This was one of them—one of the ghosts he'd been briefed on during the Amity Park meeting. He hadn’t seen one in person until now—none of them had. All they’d had were glitchy pictures and videos and confirmation from JL Dark. 

Gotham hadn’t had any confirmed sightings before. Until tonight.

The spectral hound barreled onward, leaping between rooftops with eerie agility. Gravity wasn’t even an afterthought, it didn't even exist to the being. It glided with purpose through the air, through buildings, even through people (their startled screams didn’t even phase the dog). It was driven by something Robin couldn't see.

Robin followed the best he could using his bike, stalking it across buildings and alleys until it descended into the Cauldron. There, the ghost dog slowed, ears pricking up. It yipped once, bounding in a circle before letting out a low, hopeful whine.

Whatever it was looking for—it was close.

And Robin was going to find out what.

Robin parked his bike and grappled onto a nearby roof, crouching and sticking to the shadows to avoid being seen. It was twilight at that point. Not completely dark yet, but with the Gotham smog it would be pitch black soon.

The glowing dog’s tail began to wag furiously, its tongue lolling out the side of its mouth in a burst of uncontainable joy. It yipped, delighted.

A figure stepped out of the shadows.

They wore a fitted suit of green, black, and silver. No bat symbol. No bird symbol. No insignia at all. The costume was sleek, clearly reinforced, but not overly flashy outside of the odd shade of green. Tactical. Professional.

The costumed figure called out, voice bright and happy:

“Cujo! You found me!”

Damian froze.

Same build. Same height. Same voice. Same hair. Same skin tone.

His eyes narrowed.

The costume was eerily similar to his own, just recolored. Was that a purposeful taunt? To obviously copy Robin's look and give it a palette swap?

Because it was clearly obvious what this was: This new figure wasn’t a ghost, not like the dog was. This was a clone. Another Damian. Or someone pretending to be, likely on orders from Damian’s own Mother. Again.

His hand twitched toward his weapon belt.

Not letting himself hesitate a second longer, Robin draws his blade and jumps to the other rooftop in one long movement. His boots hit the gravel with practiced grace.

The boy startled, instinctively shifting his stance into a familiar one. League-trained. Robin tightens his grip on the hilt of his blade, vindicated. League-trained meant Mother sent this one.

The ghost dog steps between them, a low growl rumbling in its chest, protective.

Robin does not let the threat weaken his resolve, despite knowing full well how strong ghosts were. He levels his katana at the newcomer, and demands answers as is his right. "What does Mother hope to gain with sending another clone to Gotham, imposter? I had thought that she learned her lesson years ago, when she failed to be rid of me time and time again!"

The boy stiffened. He cocked his head in confusion. He didn’t reach for a weapon, which was odd of a Damian clone. Perhaps he knew just how futile it was to face his original? In fact, the boy just mouthed: “Another?” with an incredulous expression twisting his eerily familiar face.

Damian’s scowl deepens. “Well? Have you nothing to say, clone ?”

“Hey, you fucko!” The boy suddenly bristles. “No need to go saying ‘clone’ like it’s some kind of slur! Clones are people, you know!”

The ghost dog—Cujo—barks like a clap of thunder, as though in agreement. It crouches, ready to pounce.

The newcomer quickly darts forward and places a hand on the dog’s massive shoulder. “It’s okay, Cujo,” he soothes.

Cujo reluctantly settles, still glaring at Robin with glowing red eyes.

Damian stared him down, katana steady, but his mind was already scrambling. Clearly, the League of Assassins had advanced—perhaps even learned to train ghosts. Why else would a costumed clone with a ghost companion be roaming Gotham like a new vigilante?

He narrowed his eyes.

"What is your name, impostor ?"

The boy froze. He was clearly scrambling for a response, as though he hadn’t thought that he’d be asked such a reasonable question. His mouth opened, then closed. He glanced at Cujo, who offered no help.

In a desperate moment, the boy blurted out: “Nightingale!”

His voice cracked just slightly with panic. The word hung in the air, unfamiliar and hastily chosen.

Robin lets the tense silence stretch for several moments. “Well then, Nightingale ,” he began. The boy tensed, hearing the threat in the way Robin said the name. “Let us see what Mother hopes to gain from sending you here, shall we?”

Robin strikes .

A flash of silver—Nightingale jumps back, slipping on the edge of the roof, catching the gutter and flipping down to a fire escape. Robin is right behind him, blade slicing through air.

Cujo barks and charges, only for Nightingale to call out: “Stop, Cujo! It’s okay! I got this!”

What follows isn’t a battle—it's a chase .

They leap from rooftop to rooftop, metal fire escapes clanging, the night alive with the sound of motion and the pulse of rising tension.

But Nightingale doesn’t strike back.

He dodges. Dips under a swing. Vaults over a railing. Slides down a ladder and laughs breathlessly when Cujo suddenly appears beside him with a slobbery rubber ball in its mouth.

“You have to be kidding me,” Nightingale mutters—and throws the ball obligingly.

Cujo launches after it, tongue lolling, tail wagging like crazy.

Robin blinks, thrown off by the odd interaction. It was almost as if they weren’t taking this seriously. Was this only a game to them?

He grits his teeth, swings again—Nightingale flips backward, winded but grinning now.

Nightingale giggles, an infuriatingly infantile sound. “Man, you have terrible bedside manner, don’t you, Robin? Don’t you know better than to attack the injured?”

Robin doesn’t deign that with a response, just keeps swiping at the infuriating imbecile.

Cujo reappears with the same ball, and Nightingale throws it again.

Robin lands beside him, katana raised—and stops.

Nightingale isn’t even holding a weapon. Not even attempting to fight back.

“Why do you not fight back?” Robin snarls. “Is that not what Mother sent you here to do? To attempt to teach me some asinine lesson? To attempt to kill me again?”

That comment seems to take Nightingale aback. “Kil—What do you mean again ?! Mother has tried to kill you?! But you’re the heir! The better half !”

Those words send warning bells through Damian’s head. He skids to a halt, blade half-extended.

Nightingale stumbles to a stop as well, until they have the length of a grave stretching between them.

Damian catches his breath and studies the boy in front of him. Closer, now. Because those words… those weren’t the words a Damian clone implanted with his memories would say.

Now that Damian is looking for it, he notes the differences: the disheveled tousle of hair that Damian would never allow his hair to take. The slightly paler shade of skin tone. The slimmer physique, less bulky and more lean muscle. The little scar on the boy’s lip, looking so much like the one Damian accidentally gave—

Danyal .

Cujo trots back with the ball and drops it at Damian’s feet, this time. The dog sits on his haunches and pants, tail making a small crater against the roof they’re on.

Silence stretches for a long, long time.

Nightingale fidgets, looking more and more concerned the longer the silence stretches. Finally, he breaks: “Uh… Robin? You good?” He turns to Cujo, hissing, “Did I break him? I didn’t even do anything!”

Cujo sniffs Robin obligingly and gives an earth-shaking woof .

Chuckling, Nightingale rubs the back of his neck and gives the dog a crooked grin. “Okay, yeah. I don’t know what I was expecting you to do about that.” He turns back to Robin, worry creasing his face again. “You mind, like, saying… anything?”

Damian knows this banter. That grin. That feeling .

Mother couldn’t have…could she?

Robin sheathes his sword. Slowly. Forcing himself not to shake. “I will be keeping my eye on you, Nightingale,” he intones, voice as carefully blank as he could make it. A shake still wormed its way in, to his indignation. “Let this be your warning: We do not tolerate League ideals in Gotham or anywhere else. Stay out of trouble, and I may yet be merciful.”

Nightingale didn’t seem to know what to do with that. “O…kay?” he says, voice tilting up into a question.

Too familiar. Damian couldn’t think. He needed to think. What should he do?

“It’s not cowardly to retreat, Dami,” Richard’s Batman voice says in his mind. “Sometimes the best course of action is to take a step back. Look at the situation from all angles. Process new information. Then return with better insight and plans.”

Retreat , Robin thought. He needed to reassess. Needed more information.

Ghosts. Amity Park. Ghosts Kings. Batman’s pointed looks during the meeting—

Robin turned with a dramatic flare of his cape and grappled back to his bike. Leaving Nightingale and Cujo blinking dumbfounded and confused behind on the rooftop. He didn’t know if they called out to him. The blood rushing in his ears was far too deafening.

He needed to talk to his Father. Now .

Chapter Text

Damian returned to a Batcave largely as he'd left it hours before: Richard and Bruce facing off against each other, air tense between them. Only now, a new face had been added: Harley Quinn.

Not that Damian had the mind to wonder about her presence. No, the moment his bike skidded to a stop he barely paused in leaping off and storming up to his Father.

His Father, who immediately scowled at him. “Robin, you disobeyed orders—”

But Damian was having none of that. He cut Father off: “Tell me what you have been hiding from me, Father.”

He vaguely registered Richard hurrying to his side, brow creased with worry. “Dami—”

“It's about Danyal, isn't it?”

Everyone stilled.

Father narrowed his eyes, straightening to his full intimidating height. “You've found something,” he deduced.

“You will tell me what I need to know first, Father,” Damian demanded. “Tell me. What has Mother done?”

Bruce's frown freezes in place.

Richard starts blinking rapidly. “Talia? Danyal? Damian, slow down. What's going on? What happened?”

“What makes you think Talia has something to do with this?” Father asked, ignoring Richard's increasingly pleading questions.

Damian scoffed and rolled his eyes. “Danyal is dead, Father, do not belittle me.” He pauses then, considering the man before him. “Do you mean to tell me you assume this isn't a clone situation?”

Richard was practically pulling out his hair by that point. “I am so lost.”

“I'm not,” Harley Quinn raises her hand.

Damian pauses, blinking once. He'd completely forgotten the jester was there. That was unacceptable. To have such a lapse in focus— He narrowed his eyes at her. “Explain.”

“You found that lookalike of yours that's running around Gotham, right sugar?” Quinn guessed. She leaned against the batcomputer table, almost lounging against the surface. “I ran into the little guy a few days ago. Poor kid.”

Batman turned to her. “You neglected to bring this up during the meeting.”

Quinn rolled her eyes and crossed her arms. “Totally did, Brucie. And I ain't apologizing for it. Poor kid doesn't need the Bats breathing down his neck.”

Damian took a step forward, knuckles clenched white at his sides. “That is my twin, Quinn. My brother. And you did not think to tell me?!”

“Dami, kiddo,” Quinn said, so unfazed it was infuriating. “The kid was obviously on the run from something and lookin’ to lay low. I wasn't aboutta draw attention to him like that. If I did, he'd have bolted outta Gotham faster than you coulda found him, believe me.”

Richard twisted his hands together worriedly. “On the run? Was he alright?”

“Skinny as a stick and covered in dirt and old blood, honestly he looked like he crawled outta a grave or somethin, but happy enough to talk trauma while playing around with Bud and Lou,” Quinn said with a little grin. “We had a little back and forth, but I could tell he was a flight risk the mo’ I set eyes on him. Very jumpy.”

“Where is he now?” Father asked stiffly.

Quinn raises her hands. “Hey now, I told ya already he don't need any Bats breathing down his neck, Brucie.”

“He is my brother,” Damian says again, stressing the last word. “You will tell me what you know.” He glares at Quinn. Then turns his glare to his Father. “Both of you.”

Richard laid a firm hand onto Damian's shoulder, squeezing reassuringly. When Damian broke his glare to look up at him, Richard smiled down at him. “We'll find him, Dami, I swear it,” he promised. Then he lifted his own gaze to Father, expression hardening. “Keeping secrets isn't helping anyone here, B. What is it that you found out?”

Under the weight of all of their gazes, Father finally sighed deeply. He rubbed between his brows, looking like he was fighting off a headache. “It's speculation.”

“Give it anyway,” Richard said. “Your intuition is rarely far off, B. What'd you find?”

Father shook his head, stone faced, and turned woodenly to the batcomputer Quinn was still leaning against. He pulled up a photograph onto the main monitor. A smiling family of four stood in front of a familiar OSHA-violating monstrosity of a house.

“The Fentons,” Father began. Then zoomed in on the children—

“No,” said Damian. He took a step back, Richard's hand falling from his shoulder. “That is—”

Danyal. Smiling—grinning, really. Blue eyes striking even in the poor quality of the photograph. Thin, but not nearly as thin as the boy Damian had encountered as Nightingale. Nearly swallowed in a too-large, worn-to-threadbare NASA hoodie. Standing next to a redhead girl and in front of Drs Fenton, skin shades darker than theirs but still startlingly familial. If Damian hadn't known better, he would have assumed that Danyal was actually blood related to this family.

“Daniel Fenton, known as Danny to family and friends of Amity Park, 15 years old with papers of adoption filed when he was approximately 8 or 9 years old,” Father began. “No paper trail has been discovered beyond this point. He starts off school with excelling grades before suddenly dropping off to average grades. A few notes of violent behavior in the beginning of his schooling before that, too, suddenly stops. Hypothesis includes he dealt with similar issues to Damian when he first moved to the manor before focusing on blending in with other children his age. He is close to his adopted sister Jasmine Fenton, and has two close friends in his classmates Tucker Foley and Samantha Manson. However, he seems to have fled from Amity at least two months ago, noted from one of his teachers at Casper High who reached out to the Drs Fenton due to the boy's longer-than-normal absence. The Fentons brushed off concerns beyond mentioning the vigilante Phantom, correlation currently unknown beyond the two of them fleeing at the same period of time.”

Father stops and watches Damian closely. Silence stretches, the only thing breaking it being the ambience of the Batcave. 

Damian doesn't know what his face is doing, but it seems to encourage Richard to break the silence: “How long have you known about this, Bruce?”

Father turns to Richard. “Two days ago, I received a call from Clark. He overheard two teenagers, later identified as Tucker Foley and Samantha Manson, discussing their friend. According to Clark, they were fully aware of Daniel Fenton's relation to Damian, calling him “Damian Wayne's twin”. Based on context, it's likely they learned of this very recently, implying they’ve been in contact with the boy. Clark was unable to get them to share anything more when he approached as Clark Kent.”

“...And you did not think to inform me?” Damian asked, voice low and carefully emotionless, but that did not stop the shake in his words exposing his true anger. His scowl deepened severely. “Do not tell me that this is some sort of “payback” for telling Richard about Danyal before I told you, Father.”

Bruce stiffened at the accusation. “Of course not. I merely required confirmation of his identity. Even now, all we have is conjecture. That boy may not even be Danyal. Daniel Fenton, or the boy Harley encountered. I would need a DNA sample to confirm that, at the very least.”

Damian reached into his utility belt and pulled out a clear evidence bag with strands of black hair in it. “Would this do?”

Father stared at the bag. “Where did you get that, Robin?”

Damian drew himself up to his full height. “I pursued a costumed unknown who identified himself by the moniker Nightingale. I was able to retrieve these hairs while questioning him.”

Father's eyes sharpened in interest. He stepped closer to take the evidence bag from him. “Where?”

“The Cauldron District,” said Damian stiffly. “He had an entity with him which I identified as an animal ghost, similar if not identical to the ghosts of Amity Park. I attempted to ascertain why he was present in Gotham, to no avail. However, I was able to confirm knowledge of my identity, Mother and the League of Assassins, which led to my conclusion that Mother had again cloned myself. Until…” Damian faltered. He shook his head sharply and turned to Quinn, who had been watching the proceedings with unusual silence. “Quinn, when and where did you last spot Danyal?”

Quinn grinned. “Kiddo was lookin around for a place to lay low is my thought. We met next to Ive's turf.” She gave an exaggerated shrug. “Based on some of the things he told me, he's had a rough time of it. That was about…ah, a week ago-ish? Funny that he's decided to go full vigilante between then and now! Really taking after his Pops!” She grinned at Father.

Father rolled his eyes, starting to head towards the lab to test the hair Damian collected. “We have yet to confirm anything, Harley.”

“Confirm, conshmirm,” Quinn scoffed with a teasing grin. “That kiddo is 110% yours no question about it, I’ll even bet on it.”

“I'll pass,” Father says dryly, leaving the room.

Quinn grins and turns back to Damian. “In all seriousness kiddo, I don't recommend going lookin for your brother yet.”

Damian bristles. 

“I know, I know,” she says before Damian can say anything. “I understand what you're thinkin. But think a mo’, okay? The kid hasn't been here long. He could run straight outta Gotham if he gets spooked, ya know?” She tilted her head. “But if he's suited up and taken a name for himself for the nightlife, then it's likely he's setting down roots right now. It'd probably be best to wait until he comes to you, first.”

“Tt,” Damian scoffs. “Danyal would not run from me.” But was that true? If it was true that this Nightingale and Daniel Fenton were both Danyal, then that would imply that he wasn’t a clone after all. That would mean… Danyal never died. That Mother and Grandfather lied to Damian. That Danyal had neglected to reach out to Damian, even though Damian was certain Danyal would have gotten word of him joining the Wayne household and understood the implications of that.

Why hadn't Danyal joined Damian? Did he not know how much he missed his ahki? How much he'd mourned him? 

Had Damian really mourned Danyal for nothing? 

Damian had to resist the urge to strike out when Richard rubbed his back. As much as Damian appreciated his Baba attempting to soothe him, his skin felt far too tight and unnatural to feel anything but too much.

Thankfully, it seemed Richard recognized that. He stopped touching Damian and took a small step to the side, not straying too far. “What about me?” the man asked Quinn. “If I made sure not to be too pushy, do you think he'd run from me?”

“Nightwing? Probably. But Dickie?” Quinn took a moment to consider that. “...Depends on how much he knows about Dami's family, I suppose.” She smirks. “Besides. Can you even do “not too pushy”? Sounds like an oxymoron to me, sugar.”

Richard smiles back, albeit weakly. “Just… If you spot Danyal again, could you promise to contact me? I'd like to try to reach out to him, to make sure he knows he has a place with us, you know?”

Quinn's smirk softens. “Sure thing, Dickie. I can do that.”

Richard's smile turned relieved. “Thanks, Harley, you're the best!” He turned to Damian. “Now, how about we go upstairs and find something warm to drink?” he suggested. “I could do with a cup of hot cocoa, to be honest with you.”

Damian blinks slowly, forcing his hands to unclench. “That sounds… satisfactory.”

With a parting word to Quinn, Richard leads Damian out of the Batcave.

Danny and Cujo watched, baffled, as Robin's cape flicked away into the night.

It was almost as if Robin was…fleeing. But Danny had to be mistaken. Robin was Damian! Damian would never flee, not in any situation. It was against everything the boy stood for!

Maybe Damian had an emergency to get to? Danny hadn't heard Robin's comm go off, but perhaps he had a different tell that Danny wouldn't recognize?

Yeah, that must've been it.

Cujo whuffed in confusion, his nose nudging the ball he'd offered Robin. His tail wilted from the rejection.

Danny patted Cujo's flank. “Don't worry, boy. He just had something important to get to. He would have loved playing with you if he'd had the time. He loves dogs!”

Cujo whined. 

Yeah, Danny didn't believe himself either. 

What was all of that about, anyway? Danny had only been outside for all of 10 minutes before Cujo showed up! And with Robin apparently hot on the ghost dog's heels! Just what was his luck, exactly?!

He'd just been testing out his suit!

Well. Danny patted around his belt and sighed in relief. He didn't have his wakizashi on him physically, at least. It was tucked in his thigh with his phone and a thermos, until he could get supplies to properly clean and sharpen it.

Thank the Ancients for small mercies. That would have outed him to Damian for sure!

Cujo interrupted his thoughts with another whine.

Oh! Maybe Danny could see if that lady with the hyenas was available for a hangout? Cujo would love playing with them!

Danny told as much to Cujo, who started wiggling in his excitement.

Now…what was it that he was forgetting, again?

…

Oh, well, it must not have been too important.

“Ten minutes, Danny?!”

Danny whined, winding up and hurling Cujo's ball deep into the woods of Robinson Park. The spectral mastiff tore after it with an excited yip. “I know! But when I saw Cujo I couldn't not go out to greet him! I had no idea Robin was there!”

Which was a problem, considering Danny could usually sense Damian's proto-core from a good distance away. He must have been way too distracted by putting on the suit—and by the slobbering, tail-wagging blur currently crashing back through the underbrush.

Cujo skidded to a stop in front of him, tail wagging like mad. Danny snatched the ball from between big ghostly teeth and tossed it again, watching Cujo run back off.

He hadn't been able to find Harley or her two hyenas, but thankfully Robinson Park was oddly devoid of human life today. That meant he could play with his massive glowing dog without anyone the wiser.

Tucking his phone between cheek and shoulder, Danny only half listened to the scolding his sister was giving him from Amity. Jazz sounded more exasperated than actually upset, so he didn’t feel too bad about being distracted.

Cujo came bounding back, dropping the ball at Danny’s feet. Danny kicked it high with his boot, sending the dog into another mad dash.

Besides…there was an actual reason for this call: “Hey…uh, Jazz?”

Jazz cut herself off mid-rant, sighed deeply, and asked, “Yes, Danny?”

Danny winced at her tone. “I love you.”

Jazz immediately softened. “I love you too, little brother. I'm sorry for snapping at you. Just… could you be a bit more careful? For like… six more hours? We're on our way to Gotham right now. I hate thinking you're in trouble when none of us are there to help.”

Something in Danny's core unclenched at the confirmation. They were about halfway between Illinois and New Jersey, then. They were almost here.

His Fraid was coming Home.

Danny shook off the thought. “As soon as Cujo’s tired himself out, I’ll take us to my most secure safehouse and wait there for you guys. Promise.”

“Thank you,” Jazz said. There was shuffling on her end. “Now. What else is going on?”

Danny caught the ball, stalling his response by tossing it again. “…What do you mean?” He went for innocent, missing by a mile.

“I love you, Danny, but you are terrible at keeping secrets from me.”

Because I don’t like to keep anything from you, and I trust you with my secrets. He didn’t say it out loud—because that would imply he was pretending to be bad with secrets in order to like…lower her guard or something. That wasn't really the case. He just…liked that he could trust his Fraid with his secrets. That he could be freely himself for once. 

Jazz’s frown was audible. “What’d you do, Danny? Are you okay?”

“Yeah! Yeah, it’s nothing bad, I promise.” He hoped. “Just…promise not to get mad?”

“Ooooh, Danny’s gonna get in trouble~” teased Tucker, voice muffled and drowsy. Sam grumbled something incoherent.

The mental image of Sam and Tucker buried in blankets, glasses askew, hair messy, made him smile. He lobbed the ball for Cujo again.

“I… When Robin asked what I was called, I panicked and… told him that I was Nightingale.”

Jazz was silent for a beat. “…And?”

“I? Used the name of the Fenton-Nightingales? When I’m not even a Fenton?”

“Oh, Danny,” Jazz sighed, sad and fond at once. “You’re my brother, blood relation or not. Nightingale is as much your name to use as any Fenton.”

Danny’s eyes burned. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” she promised.

Danny’s core purred from Acceptance and Family-Fraid-Love.

Tucker groaned. “Did he say Nightingale? Shit. I’m going to have to change Jazz and Danny’s surnames on their new IDs!”

“You made their surname Nightingale?” Sam demanded. “Do you want to out all of us to those crazy-smart detective Furries?”

Danny threw his head back and laughed, tossing the ball one last time. Cujo bounded after it with all the joy in the world.

Only a handful of hours to go, and he’d be Whole again.

Danny couldn’t wait.

Desert winds howled beyond grand sandstone walls. Inside, the air was heavy with incense and heat. Gold and obsidian lanterns glowed faintly, casting dancing shadows across the walls, each carved with symbols of death, rebirth, and power. The palace seemed to pulse with its own heartbeat, its stones absolutely saturated in death magic.

Dozens of guards patrolled the outer halls: robed cultists, masked assassins, and silent warriors of the League. Their footsteps made no sound against the polished stone floors. Even the air here felt watchful.

Far beneath the main hall, in a chamber carved from black-veined stone, a Lazarus Pit bubbled in quiet agitation. Its green glow filled the chamber, throwing rippling light against the high ceilings and twisting columns.

Beside the pit, a figure lounged—regal, ancient, and patient. She was barefoot, her long robes trailing across the floor like woven shadow. One delicate foot dipped just enough to touch the surface of the bubbling waters. It hissed and spit at her, almost alive.

A robed cultist entered, hood low, face bowed.

He knelt before her, pressing his forehead to the stone.

"The Gotham Pit grows stronger yet, My Lady. We estimate it shall become a full-fledged portal to the Realms within the next twenty-four hours."

The woman did not look up from where her foot touched the angry energy of the Lazarus Pit. She merely smiled, slow and elegant, as though she had long known this moment would come.

"Good," she said softly. Her voice echoed in the chamber, smooth as silk and sharper than a knife into bone. "Soon, the prophecy shall come to pass, and We shall finally obtain the power of Death itself." Her smile widened. "Long have I awaited this occasion. Fetch my Lord lover, won't you? We have much to celebrate."

The cultist left the chamber with a parting bow. Outside, the winds screamed louder, but within the palace, all was still. 

Watching, and waiting.

Chapter Text

Danny surfaced from sleep slowly, like drifting up through warm water. The first thing he noticed was the weight of blankets, layered and tangled, cocooning him in a nest that smelled faintly of ectoplasm and laundry soap. The second was the steady warmth of bodies pressed against his sides—Sam tucked against his left shoulder, Tucker sprawled half-on his right, arm dangling off the bed in a way that made Danny wonder how he didn’t wake up with circulation issues.

It was comfortable. Safe. The kind of safe Danny had once thought impossible.

He kept his eyes closed a little longer, letting the lazy sounds of the safehouse filter in: the faint hum of the generator, the occasional creak of pipes, and—more clearly—the bickering voices of his best friends.

“All I did was compliment her hair,” Tucker protested, voice pitched just above a whisper, like he thought Danny was still asleep.

“You flirted with Poison Ivy,” Sam hissed back, jabbing a finger into his chest hard enough to make the mattress shift. “Do you realize what you did? You ruined my chance to actually talk to Dr. Pamela Isley about her work!”

“I wasn’t flirting, I was being polite! You can’t just not say something when someone has, like, ridiculously vibrant… you know…” Tucker trailed off, as though realizing mid-argument that maybe praising Gotham’s eco-terrorist wasn’t the smartest hill to die on.

Sam groaned, dragging a hand down her face. “She’s my idol, Tucker. Do you know how rare it is I get to meet someone who actually respects the environment the way she does? And then you had to go and annoy her into puffing you with cuddle pollen.”

Tucker groaned theatrically, flopping more heavily against Danny. “It wasn’t that bad.”

“Not that bad?” Sam’s voice was sharp but still tinged with heartbreak. “You sneezed so hard I thought your lungs were going to eject themselves. And then she stormed off before I could even ask a single question.”

Danny cracked his eyes open, the sight of their scowling faces—Sam’s frustrated but starry-eyed, Tucker’s sheepishly defensive—filling him with a warmth that had nothing to do with the nest of blankets. He smiled, slow and goofy, cheek pressing against Sam’s hair as Tucker shifted beside him.

They didn’t notice right away, too caught up in their argument, and Danny took the opportunity to simply watch them. His Fraid. His safe place. Sam with her fierce passions, Tucker with his relentless charm. The world could fall apart outside these walls and it wouldn’t matter.

Danny yawned quietly, the sound muffled into Sam’s hair. She glanced up then, eyes softening when she caught sight of his grin.

“Morning, space case,” she murmured, half fond, half exasperated.

“Morning,” Danny replied, voice rough with sleep, smile still plastered across his face. He tightened his arms around them both, burrowing deeper into the blankets. “Best morning ever.”

Danny kept his smile tucked away in the blankets, listening as Sam and Tucker continued to squabble. But his mind drifted back to the moment that had led them here in the first place…

It had only been hours since Jazz, Sam, Tucker, and Dani had made it to Gotham. The reunion had been messy—tight hugs, teary laughter, Danny’s core thrumming with relief that they were Whole again. But once they settled, Jazz pieced something together with startling clarity. The “Harley with two hyenas” Danny had mentioned?

Dr. Harleen Quinzel. Her idol. And she was married to Pamela Isley—Sam’s idol.

Danny hadn’t been able to resist when Jazz and Sam’s eyes lit up in sync. He took them all to Robinson Park, where Harley and Ivy were living. Harley welcomed them in with easy warmth, introducing Bud and Lou like oversized puppies.

Jazz and Danny settled with Harley in the living room. Jazz’s excitement was barely contained, and Harley matched her energy with ease, the two of them slipping into rapid-fire discussions about psychology, trauma, and rehabilitation. Danny curled against his sister’s side, his core purring at the comfort of her heartbeat and voice while Harley laughed at Jazz’s sharp insights. For a moment, he let himself melt into the warmth of family and found kinship.

Meanwhile, Sam, Tucker, and Dani had gone off to one of Ivy’s greenhouses. Danny imagined Sam’s intensity as she finally got to talk to Pamela Isley face-to-face, Tucker making a fool of himself, Dani somewhere between instigator and mediator.

But then—the doorbell.

Jazz froze. Danny froze with her. Harley, with a long-suffering sigh, rose from her seat. “Don’t move, pumpkins. I’ll get it.”

She swung the door open, and there he was.

Dick Grayson. All easy charm and handsome smile, sunlight against Gotham’s gloom. He looked past Harley into the room and his smile softened as he took in Jazz and Danny.

"I'm busy entertaining guests,” Harley drawled with mock severity, planting a hand on her hip. “Make it quick, bird boy.”

“Sorry,” he said gently, nodding toward them. “Didn’t mean to interrupt.”

While Harley and Jazz’s attention was drawn to Dick, Danny slipped away. He tucked himself into the shadows of the hall and watched.

Dick’s gaze flicked after him almost immediately. He noticed the empty spot where Danny had been. And then Dick smiled—soft, odd, tinged with sadness. Like he understood why Danny had disappeared.

Danny’s chest tightened. This was Nightwing. The eldest son of Batman. The man Damian called Baba.

He stayed in the shadows, mulling over that thought. Danny had learned he couldn’t trust parental figures. Not Talia, who was full of false love and too much judgment. Not Jack and Maddie, who had cut him open to “save” him. And definitely not Father, who was a stranger at best and a potential foe at worst. He remembered the bitter and sharp way Damian had spoken of Father at Danyal’s grave, derision thick in his tone.

And yet… Damian called this man Baba. Something as childish and vulnerable as Baba. That meant trust—trust that he wouldn’t be looked down on, deceived, or lied to. Trust that he could lean on someone without fear of betrayal.

Would it be possible for him to be the same…for Danny?

No. He shook the thought away. Danny couldn’t allow himself that kind of vulnerability, not again. He pressed deeper into the shadows, heart aching with something dangerously close to hope.

Nightwing didn’t stay long. He made sure to introduce himself to Jazz, shaking her hand with a courteous smile, apologizing for scaring off her “friend.”

“Brother,” Jazz corrected smoothly, her voice firm with pride. The word wrapped warmly around Danny’s core, steadying him.

Dick’s smile warmed further, and with effortless grace he corrected his assumption without missing a beat. “I'm sorry I scared off your brother. I'll get out of your hair.”

And then, as quick as he had arrived, he was gone, with only the smallest glance sent toward Danny's hiding place as he slipped out the door indicating hesitation.

Such a short interaction, but it left Danny with an odd mixture of questions… and the kind of vain hope he knew better than to cling to.

Danny recalled the shouting and laughter that had drifted from the direction of Ivy’s greenhouses soon after, the chaos that had set everything in motion. Tucker wheezing, Sam scolding, Dani egging them on—it had been noisy, ridiculous, and exactly the kind of normal Danny hadn’t realized he’d been starving for. The sound of family being family. The sound of his world coming back together.

The rest was history.

Now he lay hidden away in his most secure safe house, cocooned in a fortress of blankets. The place was warded, reinforced, tucked so deep into Gotham’s forgotten underbelly that not even the GIW’s scanners would find it. But it wasn’t the steel walls or the wards that made him feel safe. It was the press of warmth at his sides.

Sam was curled close on one side, her steady presence both fierce and comforting. Tucker sprawled on the other, his arm slung across Danny like he was trying to anchor him to the moment. Both of them were tangled up with him, their breathing slow now, their bodies lax as they waited out the lingering haze of Ivy’s cuddle pollen. The sweet, earthy smell still clung to them, but Danny didn’t mind. It was grounding, almost soothing.

Close by, Dani and Jazz lingered. Dani, refusing to be left out even if she didn't like too much touch, had curled up in a beanbag within arm’s reach, her small form glowing faintly with the three blobs purring in her lap. Jazz had claimed the battered couch just a few feet away, stretched out with one hand draped over the edge so she could reach for Danny or Dani at any second if she needed to. Cujo stretched out at her feet, snoring. None of them seemed able to stray too far from the rest of their Fraid, their little chosen family orbiting around each other in quiet need.

Danny understood. He felt the same—the magnetic pull of belonging, the ache that had followed him through every lonely night now easing in their presence. He had missed them so much it hurt, a hollow gnawing in his core that no amount of wandering Gotham’s streets could soothe. Now that they were here, that ache eased with every heartbeat, every shared breath, every familiar sound.

His core thrummed with contentment, purring faintly in time with the steady rhythm of their breathing. He let himself sink deeper into the warmth, cheek pressing against Sam’s hair, Tucker’s weight heavy and reassuring against his ribs. Dani and Cujo’s soft snores filled the quiet, Jazz’s steady heartbeat a lullaby on the edge of his awareness.

For the first time in too long, Danny allowed himself to believe he wasn’t alone. That he might never have to be again.

The soft haze of warmth and half-sleep was shattered by a sudden, piercing beeping.

Danny jerked awake, his core buzzing in alarm as the sound rattled through the safehouse like a shriek. Around him, his Fraid groaned and shifted—Sam burying her face deeper into his shoulder, Tucker letting out a muffled curse as he rolled, Dani twitching upright with wide, glowing eyes, already tense for a fight.

Jazz, ever the first to respond, pushed herself up on one elbow, her voice sharp. “Danny?” she asked, worry cutting through her drowsiness. “What is it?”

Danny’s hand trembled as he reached out, pulling his phone closer from the edge of the blanket nest. The screen’s harsh glow lit his face, scrolling data flashing in jagged green lines across the dark. His breath hitched, and all the color drained from his face.

At his silence, the others roused further. Sam dragged herself upright, eyes narrowing. Tucker shoved his glasses on with fumbling hands, blinking blearily at Danny. Dani halfway floated out of her beanbag, disturbing the blobs still in her lap. Jazz’s gaze locked on him, sharp and unwavering. Cujo had apparently slipped out sometime while they were asleep, though Danny could sense him nearby.

Danny swallowed hard, throat dry. “This amount of ecto can only mean one thing.” His voice was barely a whisper, but the weight of it pressed down on them all. “A portal. In Gotham. Here, in the Cauldron.”

The words dropped into the room like ice water. His Fraid froze, wide eyes reflecting the sickly green glow. The cocoon of blankets that had been so safe and comforting just moments before now felt like a fragile barrier against the storm gathering outside.

And beyond their safehouse, the world was already stirring. Eyes locking onto Gotham—

High above the Earth, alarms blared through the Watchtower. Red warning lights painted the gleaming halls as screens lit with violent spikes of ectoplasmic energy. Data streamed faster than most could read, but the words pulsed bright and undeniable: PORTAL ANOMALY – LOCATION: GOTHAM CITY. Superman’s jaw set like stone, Wonder Woman’s hand clenched around her lasso, and Flash muttered under his breath, “Again? Not here…” Across the hall, John Constantine flicked ash from his cigarette and muttered a curse, already reaching for his trench coat. The Watchtower was alive with motion, a storm of heroes converging around the monitors.

In the Batcave, a shrill klaxon shattered the silence. The cave was bathed in a crimson glow as the Batcomputer’s screen filled with streaming coordinates. “ECTO-ENERGY SURGE – CAULDRON DISTRICT” blazed across the main monitor. Bruce leaned forward, jaw tightening, eyes narrowing at the implication. Gotham, his Gotham, was the breach point. Nightwing’s comm crackled faintly in the cavern, his voice tense: “B, I’m already topside. Do we contain or investigate?” Tim’s chair screeched back as he leaned into his own console, muttering calculations under his breath. Red Hood cursed loudly from somewhere near the weapons rack, already loading magazines. Batman gave no immediate order, his silence more dire than any word could be.

Miles away, deep within the humming core of the Fenton Lab, alarms shrieked as red lights strobed erratically. Machinery roared as screens flooded with ecto-readings off the charts. Maddie and Jack Fenton burst into the room, lab coats flying off as they rushed to their consoles. Maddie’s eyes gleamed with feral focus as she snapped, “Jack, those readings—this is it. Proof we can’t ignore. A portal, in Gotham!”

Jack’s grin was wide, teeth bared, his voice booming with grim satisfaction. “Finally! A chance to eradicate the ecto scum once and for all! We’ll make them pay for what they did—taking our boy from us.”

Their hands flew over the controls with zeal. Maddie adjusted a dial with clinical precision, muttering to herself about cross-dimensional tracking algorithms, while Jack slapped a hand onto the containment release controls, ready to unleash every weapon they had. The sirens wailed louder, echoing their determination. In their minds, this wasn’t just revenge—it was justice twisted by grief.

At GIW headquarters, the reaction was immediate. Dozens of agents leapt into motion as command screens lit with urgent readouts. “Portal breach detected—coordinates Gotham!” barked a commander. Chairs scraped, boots pounded against the floor, and the entire facility roared with the sound of readiness, like a hive stirred with violence. Special containment units were wheeled out, weapons primed with ecto-energy rounds. Files marked Priority One: Phantom were thrown onto desks, while the head of operations snarled, “If he’s there, he won’t escape us this time.”

Far away, in the hidden sanctums of the Lazarus cult, shadows deepened as arcane instruments pulsed an eerie green. The bubbling pits mirrored the glow, rippling with unnatural light. Hooded cultists turned to their matriarch with fever-bright eyes, whispers rising like a chant. 

Their leader raised one thin hand, silencing them, and smiled a cruel, knowing smile. The prophecy was stirring—here, now. And to them, the opening of the portal was no threat at all, but an opportunity. The world trembled on the edge of revelation.

Chapter Text

Hey guys

Sorry to make you think this is a new chapter, but I wanted to ask something since I received a comment concerned about how much I've packed into the recent chapters.

Are you guys feeling too overwhelmed or that the story has drawn away from what you liked from it initially? I'm having fun with what I'm writing, sure, but my goal is for everyone to enjoy this story, and I'd hate to see you guys so oversaturated in *stuff* that you can't enjoy Nightingale anymore.

Please let me know your thoughts in the comments!

Thank you

(Edit)

Thanks so much for all of the wonderful comments for this A/N!!! I was blown away by the sheer number of you willing to put in the time to let me know your thoughts! I can't thank you all enough!

I'm going to keep this chapter up so I can keep the wonderful feedback from you all. Have a sketch I made of Robin and Nightingale as a treat!

Thank you all again!!!

Chapter Text

In the Batcave, a shrill klaxon shattered the silence. The cave was bathed in a crimson glow as the Batcomputer’s screen filled with streaming coordinates. “ECTO-ENERGY SURGE – CAULDRON DISTRICT” blazed across the main monitor. Bruce leaned forward, jaw tightening, eyes narrowing at the implication. Gotham, his Gotham, was the breach point. Nightwing’s comm crackled faintly in the cavern, his voice tense: “B, I’m already topside. Do we contain or investigate?” Tim’s chair screeched back as he leaned into his own console, muttering calculations under his breath. Red Hood cursed loudly from somewhere near the weapons rack, already loading magazines. Batman gave no immediate order, his silence more dire than any word could be.

Father’s voice cut through the alarms, sharp and measured: “Gotham is ours. I’ll take the Watchtower and make certain there will be no League interference.” He did not raise his tone, but the order carried a finality that no one questioned.

Assignments followed in quick succession: Red Robin on digital surveillance, fingers already flying across his keyboard; Black Bat and Spoiler to Oracle to coordinate efforts with the Birds of Prey; Red Hood to his territory, his muttered curses promising violence; Nightwing would return to the cave to don the cowl of Batman, then head to the Cauldron District to directly confront the source. Oracle would coordinate all movements from her tower. Each instruction fell with iron weight, precision honed by years of command.

Damian listened to his Father’s words, his spine straight, chin lifted. He caught the unspoken truth beneath his father’s tone: Batman was worried.

And of course—Robin was still benched. Still treated as the boy recovering from wounds, not the soldier he had always been. His jaw ached from clenching, nails biting crescents into his palms. Did his father not realize? Did he not understand that Damian would not sit idly by? Not when Danyal was alive. Here. Somewhere close.

Father had not been satisfied with the tests he’d run on the hair Damian collected. Even with the data saying directly that the boy was Damian’s twin and Bruce Wayne’s blood son. He wanted more—more assurance, more proof . As though Damian’s own instincts and senses were not enough. As though the DNA in the hair was mere coincidence . Batman could never be satisfied.

Never mind that, because there was something more pressing than his father’s subpar family skills—

The portal was showing up in the Cauldron District —exactly where Robin had encountered Nightingale. Coincidence? His gut was telling him no. Was Danyal involved? Or was the timing merely another cruel twist of fate?

As the Batfamily dispersed, Alfred appeared at Damian’s side. The butler’s expression was calm, but his eyes carried the same depth of worry that Father’s had tried to mask. In his hands, Alfred held a small, neatly wrapped package.

“Should you find yourself in the Cauldron, Master Damian,” Alfred said softly, pressing it into his hand, “perhaps you might offer this to Master Danyal. I suspect he will be needing it.”

Damian looked down at the object, something tight and unspoken catching in his chest. Alfred’s words were a benediction, a permission, and a reminder all at once.

Moments later, Batman swept out, cloak snapping behind him, bound for the Watchtower. The weight of his absence filled the cave.

Richard arrived soon after, peeling off his domino mask and moving toward the case where his personal Batsuit waited. Jason, leaning against the weapons rack with his helmet held under his arm, smirked at the man.

“Off to find your second son, huh?” Jason drawled, his tone teasing but edged with something sharp. “Guess that makes you a father of twins.” His grin widened, teeth flashing. “Demon Twins, ha! Funny—thought that was just a Pit hallucination. Didn’t figure it was real.”

The words hung heavy in the air. Richard froze mid-step, cowl clutched in his hand, his expression flickering between surprise and something else—grief, recognition, guilt.

Jason shrugged, as though it didn’t matter, though his eyes betrayed the lingering haze of unreliable memories.

Richard broke the silence, his voice quieter than Damian had expected it to be. “You remember Danyal?” he asked Jason as he started gearing up.

Jason’s smirk faltered, his eyes shadowed. “Yeah,” he said, almost reluctantly. “I remember enough.” He paused, the smirk tugging weakly at his mouth before fading again. “Kid once swapped out every single blade in the training room for dulled practice steel. Left Ra’s fuming when half the League tried to spar and couldn’t cut watermelons, let alone enemies. The little demon just stood there, arms crossed, acting like he was above it all until Talia found out and tanned his hide.”

Jason let out a low chuckle, but there was no mirth in it—just the faint ache of remembering something half-lost. “Funny. That’s what sticks. Mischief. Course, back then… I was hallucinating a lot. Sometimes the sky was the color of a Lazarus Pit. Sometimes I thought I was a Flying Robin in a blue cape with some weird friend who had glowing eyes, powers like Kori's, and a tail who called me “Bluejay”. Hard to take anything seriously after memories like that.”

Damian stood silent, fury and confusion churning in his chest. His own memories surfaced: remembered lowering Danyal’s wakizashi into the velvet casket, fingers brushing against the constellation-patterned cloth he had wrapped it in. He remembered grief—raw, private, and bone-deep. He had thought it buried there with the blade, tucked into the Wayne family plot where only those who understood its weight would ever look. The grave had been a confession and a farewell all in one.

Now that grief curdled into suspicion. If Nightingale was truly Danyal… if he was truly Danny Fenton… what did that mean for them? For the family? For Damian himself?

The thought coiled through him like smoke, bitter and sharp. His brother alive. His brother wearing another name, living another life. The possibility was impossible—and yet Damian had seen him. Had felt the tug of recognition down to his marrow. Real.

A strange thrum reverberated in Damian’s chest, low and insistent, like the echo of some buried chord being plucked. His breath caught as his vision swam faintly green, the edges of the cave blurring in unnatural hues before clearing again. His fists clenched, nails biting into his palms.

Stress , he told himself. Only stress. Nothing more.

But deep inside, Damian was no longer sure he believed it.

The night air was heavy as Richard adjusted the Batman cowl, the familiar weight of it settling across his shoulders. Beside him, Damian checked his own gear with brisk efficiency, the silence between them steady rather than strained. Gotham’s skyline yawned before them, crimson light still faintly staining the horizon as the sky turned past dusk into night.

“Stay behind me tonight,” his Batman said, voice deepened by the modulation in the cowl and carrying the weight of command. “No strenuous activity. We don’t know what we’re walking into, and you’re still recovering.”

Robin gave a small huff, sharper than it needed to be. “I am aware,” he replied, a touch of impatience in his tone. But he fell into step without hesitation. Father might have benched him, might have doubted his readiness, but Richard had always trusted him in the field. And Damian trusted Richard. They had made a team, back before Father returned from the timestream, Batman and Robin—partners who had bled and survived together. The very best.

It was gratifying to Damian to feel that partnership again.

The Batmobile purred beneath them as his Batman drove, its engine tuned to a whisper. The city lights blurred past, neon and shadow weaving together as they cut toward the Cauldron District. Robin sat upright in the passenger seat, the small package from Alfred tucked securely into his belt. His mind replayed memories unbidden: the wakizashi, the grave, green light flashing in his vision.

“Your head’s not here,” his Batman said after a long stretch of silence, eyes fixed on the road. “Whatever it is, Robin… you’re going to need it steady.”

Robin’s lips thinned, but his voice was even. “I am steady,” he insisted. “I know what’s at stake.” His gaze shifted to his Batman, a flicker of trust in his eyes. “I will not let you down.”

His Batman glanced at him briefly, the corners of his mouth softening beneath the cowl. “I know, Robin.”

The Cauldron was drawing close, its broken skyline marked by flickering neon lights and the skeletal husks of old industry. And somewhere in that sprawl, a portal to the Infinite Realms awaited.

As the Batmobile slowed, his Batman pulled them into the shadows of an overpass. The Cauldron spread before them like a wound—half-lit buildings, streets buzzing with restless energy, the faint shimmer of something other-worldly staining the air like heat haze. Police scanners crackled with confusion, calls of strange lights and outages already piling up.

His Batman opened their comm line. “Batman and Robin closing in on the site of the portal. Will likely encounter signal interference or jamming. Prepare for radio silence.”

With Oracle’s staticky confirmation, he muted the comm and turned to Robin.

Robin leaned forward, eyes narrowing. “It’s close, Batman. I can sense it.” He didn’t elaborate on what he meant—whether instinct, training, or something deeper stirring in his chest. His Batman didn’t press. He just nodded. He trusted Robin's senses as much as his own.

“Then we move carefully,” his Batman said. He reached for his grapple, the motion practiced, smooth, despite the cumbersome weight of the Batsuit. “Recon first, engagement second. No matter what’s waiting, we don’t go in blind.”

Robin’s jaw tightened, but he nodded. He knew the rhythm of his Batman’s leadership, had fought at his side long enough to recognize the value in patience, even when every muscle in his body screamed to act.

Together they slipped into the night, cape and cloak blending into Gotham’s jagged silhouette. The closer they drew, the stronger the pulse that reminded Robin of Lazarus Pit grew, spilling between broken rooftops, throwing jagged shadows across alley walls. The air itself felt heavier, thick with energy Damian had only ever associated with Grandfather.

Robin’s breath stuttered as he caught sight of him—Nightingale, crouched low near a rooftop’s edge, silver-green light pooling across his hands.

Nightingale worked with steady, deliberate movements, inscribing glowing lines into the rooftop’s surface. Every movement hummed faintly in Robin’s chest, a resonance he couldn’t recognize beyond a faint sense of familiar . Three blob ghosts hovered around him, their forms glowing faintly in the night. One bobbed happily against his shoulder, another twirled lazily around his head like a living halo, while the third nestled into his hair, coiling like an affectionate cat. They hummed, chirped, and occasionally tugged at his curls, utterly at ease in his presence. The sight was so absurdly gentle that Damian’s throat constricted.

“Batman,” Robin whispered, sharper than he meant, “there. On the roof.”

Beside him, his Batman’s white lenses narrowed behind the cowl. “I see him.”

Nightingale immediately turned, as if hearing them. The glow etched his features in green. His body tensed like a cornered animal, and it looked as though he might leap away from them into the night. The blob ghosts hissed softly, pressing closer to him, one tugging at his hair in agitation.

Robin’s hand twitched forward. “Do not let him disappear, Batman.” His voice was low, urgent, almost pleading.

The Batman cowl dipped in acknowledgment, then the man himself stepped into the open, his dark silhouette cutting against the skyline. Robin remained a half-step behind, the package Alfred had entrusted to him weighing heavily in his belt like a physical weight.

Nightingale’s eyes snapped to the figure of Batman, and he froze. His whole body went rigid. Robin saw the faint flicker of fear—and beneath it, suspicion. The way he drew back, shoulders tensed, spoke of too many bad memories. The blob ghosts crowded close, squeaking in alarm. He tensed and prepared to flee.

But something in the air shifted. Robin’s chest ached, a thrum beating beneath bone, something both a heart and not-a-heart pounding against his ribs. He didn’t speak—he couldn’t—but he willed Nightingale to stay. Perhaps the call reached him. Perhaps it was a coincidence. But Nightingale hesitated.

Richard—Batman—was careful not to use the full force of Batman’s growl. His voice was gentler, calmer: “Hello, Nightingale. We don’t want a fight. We are here to learn what is happening and assist. Are you making wards?”

Nightingale’s lips pressed tight, his gaze darting from Batman to Robin and back. He was still far too tense, but there was something else now: confusion. Curiosity. He rocked on the balls of his feet, uncertain.

Robin’s chest went tight, that thing in his chest reaching for Nightingale.

Nightingale edged closer. Each movement was slow, cautious, but undeniable—as though he was being pulled closer against his will. The blob ghosts floated with him, their humming soft, protective. When he was close enough, one of the blobs hesitated, then drifted toward Robin. Robin stiffened as the tiny ghost hovered inches from his face, chirping curiously before zipping back to Nightingale’s hair. Nightingale froze again, eyes sharpening as he studied Batman closely. He cocked his head, leaning forward and tilting his head up as though to peer even closer at the man.

Batman smiled.

It was subtle, small, but undeniably warm. And Robin saw Nightingale flinch at it. His breath caught, his body tensed for retreat. But then something passed across his face—recognition. He relaxed by a fraction, enough to shift from flight to wary stillness.

Robin was perplexed by this, but was careful to bite his tongue. Danyal was jumpy enough as it was. His interrogation would have to wait until Damian was certain the boy couldn’t run away.

Nightingale’s throat bobbed with a swallow. “I’m setting up wards to keep ghosts from passing too far from the portal?” he said, his last word tilting up like a question. He waved his hands placatingly. “I mean, it won’t keep out more powerful ghosts, but it’s a quick fix until I can set up more powerful protections.”

Batman’s voice remained gentle. “Show us?”

Nightingale hesitated, glancing at Robin.

Uncertain what his twin was looking for, Robin nodded, hoping that it would be reassurance.

Nightingale smiled tightly then turned, leading them down past the glowing runes into the underground. Down, down, down they went, mostly in silence. The blob ghosts clung close to the boy, chirping anxiously as they descended.  At the lowest level, it was clear that a Lazarus pit had once been there. Now it was something else entirely. The surface shimmered green, stretched thin as a mirror, swirling like a whirlpool. Robin’s throat tightened as he stared. A portal, living and dangerous.

Nightingale knelt at the edge, hands brushing glowing runes and odd bits and bobs of tech. His voice was soft, distant. “When ectoplasm is exposed in solid form in the mortal realms, it usually evaporates quickly back to the Infinite. But the sheer amount that was here… I should have known better. Purifying so much so quickly… but if it had gone and been corrupted again… ugh .”

Robin’s ears perked. “Purified? Are you claiming you purified a Lazarus Pit ?”

Nightingale jumped and immediately scrambled. “Oh—uh—obviously not! That’s not—I mean—”

Batman waved away the boy’s scrambling. “It’s alright, Nightingale,” he rumbled. He tilted his head toward the portal. “Can you tell us what you’re doing right now to “contain” the portal?”

Startled, Nightingale flung himself and the blob ghosts clutched to him toward the lines of tech and magic circling the portal. “Yes! Um, so it’s pretty rudimentary right now, due to time constraints—”

Nightingale walked them through the most eldrich and nonsensical mess Robin had ever borne witness to. None of it followed logic—apparently ectoplasm added to tech made anti-ghost tech stronger ? But too much would turn the tech into ghosts themselves ? Same with food, particularly meat, apparently—Nightingale went on a tangent of fighting Thanksgiving turkeys and a fridge war between hotdogs and lunch meats and other such items.

Robin exchanged looks with his Batman, who was looking quite pale and a little green, though that was probably just the portal’s light reflecting off him.

Robin had never been happier to be vegan.

With thinly-veiled queasiness, Robin’s Batman gently guided Nightingale away from the topic of food coming to life via terrible lab safety. “You certainly seem to be an expert on all of this,” he said.

That put an immediate dampener on Nightingale’s enthusiasm. His shoulders tensed. “I don’t know about “expert”,” he demured, cautious. The trio of blobs started purring like little motors, Robin somehow hearing a chant of safe safe safe from them.

Safe , pulsed from Robin’s own chest. Don’t leave. Stay stay stay.

Nightingale looked up at Robin. His brow furrowed, but his shoulders forcibly untensed.

Robin’s Batman was nodding, not noticing the odd exchange. “That’s alright, Nightingale. I’m glad to see someone who knows what they’re doing in this situation. Our only other contact with people who know how the Realms work don’t even refer to it as the Realms—and their research is biased and unreliable at best and dangerous at worst.”

Nightingale frowned. “Drs Fenton and the GIW,” he said.

Batman nodded. “Justice League Dark has a ghost on their roster,” he told the boy, “but Deadman’s not a Realms being, so he cannot help us in this matter. And magic from various others don’t seem to affect Realms ghosts, at least not the protection or summoning magic they’ve attempted.”

“Summoning magic?” Nightingale frowned, fiddling with something tech-adjacent. 

Batman grunted. But before he could confirm, Nightingale’s phone buzzed from his belt.

The boy glanced down, thumb flicking across the screen before answering with a quick, “Pharaoh?” His tone was immediately warmed, the edge softening. Robin blinked at the unfamiliar codename until context slid into place: this must be someone Nightingale knew.

This “Pharaoh”, whoever they were, spoke too softly for Robin and Batman to hear, since their comm tech was muted to avoid it cutting out completely.

“They’re set up,” Nightingale murmured into the phone. “Sensors and wards. But nothing’ll hold against anything stronger than Cujo. Yeah, I saw the glow too. …What? A scary lady in a golden mask? Signing?” He paused, expression pinching with concern. “Sounds like Strix to me. Don’t worry, she’s nice. Maybe call in Psyche for help translating. Nightshade, head east. Don’t let anyone get too close to the portal until I stabilize this.”

Nightingale listened for a moment. His expression quivered before a small smile played on his mouth.

“Sure thing little sis, your codename can be Sparrow. See if you can’t convince Plasmius to get you your own suit fixed up. Now, I’ve got to go. Talk soon!”

He ended the call with a flick of his thumb, sighing wearily, but still with a warm fondness in his expression. Robin examined him in silence, realization dawning with each moment that passed: Danyal—Nightingale—had built a system of allies for himself. And by the “little sis” comment—a family.

Robin opened his mouth to ask his ahki about them—

The cave around them shuddered.

Robin’s head snapped up as the green shimmer rippled, disrupted by falling debris. Dust cascaded from above, and small stones clattered across the cavern floor. The wards around the portal pulsed weakly, the faint glow flaring as something slammed against them from the other side.

“Get down!” Batman ordered, sweeping both Robin and Nightingale beneath the cover of his cape just as a spray of rocks broke loose from the ceiling. The sound thundered through the chamber, sharp and relentless, the ground vibrating with the impact.

Nightingale’s eyes flashed bright, ectoplasm-green light racing across the ward lines as he flung out a hand. His blobs puffed up, squeaking indignantly, before darting back to cling to his shoulders and hair. Their tiny forms trembled with the force of the intrusion, but they pressed protectively closer.

For a heartbeat, Robin could feel the echo of something vast and terrible pressing against the portal. A weight, like a hand testing the seams of the world, threatening to tear them open. Then, just as suddenly as it began, the pressure relented.

The tremors eased. The portal stilled.

Dust drifted slowly to the floor, the last of the debris settling in uneasy silence. Batman’s cape lowered, revealing the chamber once more. No cave-in—not yet.

Robin and Nightingale peeked out from under Batman’s cape like chicks looking out from under their mother’s wings, their eyes darting to the trembling ceiling. The blob ghosts chirped nervously, only quieting as Nightingale brushed his fingers against them in reassurance.

“Someone on the other side was testing the wards,” muttered Nightingale.

The silence that followed pressed heavily between them, thicker than the dust hanging in the air. Nightingale finally broke the silence, his voice low but firm. “Nightwing, Batman, whoever you are—” because of course Damian’s twin was smart enough to catch on to that “—I need you to understand now that beings of the Infinite Realms are not inherently evil like Drs Fenton and the GIW would have you believe. There are good ghosts and bad ghosts just the same as there are good and bad humans and aliens and gods and everything else in the universes. We— they’re just another race of being, with their own cultures and moral codes. Just because they don’t think the way humans do does not make them unsentient or evil .”

“I understand, Nightingale,” Batman rumbled in reassurance. “The Justice League is aware that the beings of the Infinite Realms aren’t enemies. We’re doing work to repeal the Acts that the government implemented, and we’re working on finding where the King of the Infinite Realms is.”

Nightingale moved to leave the safety of Batman’s cape, but paused. “What do you mean, finding the King?” he asked, puzzled.

Batman tilted his head to look down at the boy still under his arm. “Are you aware of who the High King of the Infinite Realms is?” he asked.

“I mean, sure,” Nightingale admitted with a shrug. “But the guy’s, like, super asleep. Dunno what you’re doing trying to find him.”

Batman’s eyes narrowed. "Have you seen him?”

“Seen, heard, fought, take your pick,” Nightingale replied dryly. “Doesn’t mean he’s answering the door anytime soon. Pretty sure the only thing he’s doing right now is drooling in his sarcophagus.”

The cave above them gave another worrying tremble.

Batman exhaled slowly, keeping his cape carefully over the both of them. “Very well. We can touch on that later. For now, we need to regroup. Outside of this cave.”

Nightingale gave a nervous chuckle and skittered out from under Batman’s cape. Robin was honestly surprised it had taken the boy that long. But, from Robin’s own experience, being under Richard’s Batman cape felt deeply safe and comforting. Robin could not begrudge his brother from feeling similarly.

“That’s okay, I’m good,” Nightingale said. He threw a thumb over his shoulder. “I need to finish these wards, then make some more to keep humans from trying to get into the portal, you know? I can handle the cave no problem!”

Batman and Robin rose as one to their feet. “Nightingale,” Batman began in a gentle tone. “Do you understand why I would be hesitant to leave you after that near cave-in?”

Nightingale huffed and crossed his arms, stirring the blobs that were currently purring against his chest. “I’m fine! That was just someone testing the wards. It’ll stop being an issue as soon as I finish setting things up!”

“Nightingale,” Batman’s voice softened even further, turning practically paternal. “Please.”

That…made Robin’s twin hesitate. But he shook his head. “We’re just wasting time,” he insisted. “The faster I get this done, the faster the portal’s secure.”

The cave shudders threateningly again.

Batman grunted. “Alright, how about this: we go topside now, you focus on the wards up there, and Robin and I return in half an hour with a personal force field that will protect you in the event of a cave-in, and a comm for you to contact one of us if something happens. Deal?”

“Ugh, fine !” Nightingale scoffs and throws out his arms wide. “Not like you’re even listening to me, Ancients! Let’s just go !”

“Thank you, Nightingale.”

Batman ushered the two of them out the way they came, the shadows swallowing them whole as the cave’s echoes faded behind. His cape swept forward, a barrier and a guide both, and neither boy argued the pace he set.

As they made their way up, Robin discreetly—he thought, anyway—observed his twin. He noted the thin, wiry frame, skin too pale and almost sickly. Noted the soft scuff of a footstep that tried too hard not to be a limp. He watched, too, how the strange blob ghosts continued to practically smother the boy in affection. Safe safe safe, they chirped to him. They were assurances Robin didn’t know how to reconcile.

By the time they finally hit topside, the night air hit cool and heavy.

They paused in the mouth of the hidden exit, Gotham’s skyline fractured in neon beyond. 

They were about to part ways—Batman already angling away from the Cauldron District—when Robin remembered the package Alfred had pressed into his hand earlier.

Robin’s hands curled into fists. The weight of it pressed into his side like it was burning straight through the fabric. He could feel words clawing up his throat, raw and uncoordinated, refusing to stay caged.

As Nightingale turned to leave, shadows already licking at the edges of his figure, Robin’s voice broke free—cracked out, too raw, too loud for the quiet rooftop:

“Nightingale!”

The boy froze. His blobs squeaked, jittering nervously around his head.

Robin took a step forward, yanked the package free of his belt, and hurled it at his brother. The small box spun through the dim light, catching a silver-green glow before Nightingale snatched it deftly from the air.

Frowning at them, Nightingale opened the box, took a peek inside, and froze. He tipped the box into an open palm, and an odd-looking pocketwatch tumbled out.

His brother’s voice cracked. “Where—where did you get this?”

Robin’s heart lurched. He saw the weakness, the crack in his twin’s armor. He stepped forward, voice low but firm, blade-sharp with intent. “If you wish to know, then you will meet with me again. Swear it to me, Nightingale.”

Nightingale’s grip tightened around the watch, his knuckles white. The blob ghosts pressed close to his hair and shoulders, their tiny forms buzzing faintly with worry. For a long moment, silence stretched between them—silent, aching recognition.

Please please please —pulsed from Robin’s chest, pouring from him like blood from a wound.

Nightingale shuddered. He staggered back a step. Scared worried guilty—so so so sorry, Brother . Seemed to echo from Nightingale himself. “Yeah, okay,” he croaked back.

With a flick of his cape, Nightingale spun on his heel and fled.

Robin clenched his teeth and met his Batman’s solemn gaze.

He hoped he wouldn’t end up regretting that.

Chapter Text

Danny wasn’t proud to admit it, but the moment he got away from Robin and Nightwing(?)Batman, pocketwatch clutched tight in one hand, he called his Fraid and asked to tap out.

“Anyone wanna trade places with me before Batman and Robin come back?”

“Oooooh, I call dibs!” chirped Dani immediately, voice bright through the comm.

Danny’s stomach dropped. Before he could shoot that offer down—Robin had shown signs of trauma when he attacked Nightingale, implying that he’d faced previous clones of himself and been hurt, at the very least. Danny couldn’t let anything happen to Dani—Tucker spluttered.

“Wait—waitwaitwaitwait!” Tucker stuttered, already sounding flustered. “Batman and Robin are with you? Like the Batman and Robin? With you? Right now?”

“Well, not anymore!” Danny whined, dragging a hand down his face. His grip on the pocketwatch tightened. “They’ve gone to get something-something-protection for cave-ins or whatever.”

“Nightingale,” Sam deadpanned in that clear you hid this from us during the check-in, didn’t you voice.

Danny cringed hard enough his shoulders curled to his ears. “I’m fine! It was fine! Nothing even happened! Just some ghost testing the incomplete wards, that’s all.”

“The vigilantes were down at the portal?” Sam pressed, sharper now. “As in: Gotham’s top vigilantes now know exactly where the unstable hole between dimensions is?”

Danny fidgeted with the pocketwatch in his hands, thumb tracing the too-familiar etched gears and runes. His voice shrank to something tiny. “Mayyyyybe?”

“Dan– ningale , man,” Tucker groaned, “do you even hear yourself? This is like—level ten on the ‘we’re screwed’ scale!”

“Hey, hey,” Dani piped up cheerfully. “At least if the Bat finds out who you are, maybe he’ll adopt you too. Who needs Bruce Wayne when you can have the full-vigilante Fraid? I mean, come on! Free food, free gadgets, free—”

“Sparrow.” Sam’s tone was flat as stone.

“What? I’m just saying!”

Danny groaned. “Yeah, yeah, guess I’m really bat-tering myself with this one.”

There was a sharp inhale on the line, Sam about to lay into him for taking these things too lightly—

—but Jazz’s voice cut through, calm and steady. “What about the wards, Da—Nightingale?” she asked. Her tone was smooth, deliberate, and Danny felt his racing pulse slow by just a hair. Trust Jazz to zero in on the one thing that mattered. “You said they were incomplete?”

He licked his lips. “...Yeah. Batman made me go topside while they go get supplies,” he admitted. His gaze flicked toward the path down to the Lazarus—no, the Portal cavern. “I couldn’t—there wasn’t time to finish it all.”

“Then I’ll have to thank Batman when he gets back,” Jazz said, no-nonsense. “I’m heading your way now. But Nightingale… you know you’re the only one with the ability to finish the wards.”

Danny’s stomach twisted. He knew it was true—the only one of them with the ecto necessary for the wards was Dani, and she wasn’t stable enough to deal with the power loss. “Jazz—”

“Code names, Nightingale.” Jazz’s—Psyche’s—voice softened. “I’ll be there soon. You don’t have to deal with Batman and Robin. I’ll field the questions. Your job is finishing the wards around the portal. Sound good?”

“But—” Danny tried, throat tight. “Psyche, if Robin—”

“He’ll have to get through me, first.” Calm , echoed down their Fraid bond. Safe, Protect, Brother . “Breathe, Nightingale. One step at a time.”

“Seriously, dude,” Tucker added. “If she’s on the way, let her handle the scary Bat interrogation. You just do your magic ghost-ward thing before we all get slimed.”

“Yeah!” Dani chirped. “And don’t worry about Robin, he’s just mad ‘cause you look prettier in a cape.”

Danny groaned into his unoccupied hand. “So not helping.”

Sam sighed into the comm, softer this time. “Finish the wards. Let Psyche cover you. That’s the smart move. Running will only mean something slipping through the portal…or something going in. I know it sucks, considering you spent all this time trying to avoid them, but this…” She paused. “I wish I could take this from you, man.” Her voice went all soft in a way that sent warmth straight to Danny’s core.

Danny nodded instinctively, even though no one could see him. “Okay,” he whispered, rubbing his face. He traced the edges of his domino mask with his fingers, ensuring everything was still in place. “Okay.”

“I’ll be there soon, Nightingale,” Jazz promised. “Hang tight.”

The comm clicked off. The night’s hush rushed back in, loud and wrong. Danny sagged against a cold brick wall, sliding down until he was sitting with the pocketwatch clutched to his chest. His hands trembled so badly the gears scraped faintly against his claws. Shit , if his ghost powers were acting up, then he was seriously out of it.

Jazz, please hurry.

The trio of blob ghosts, who had been hovering anxiously nearby, immediately squished in around him. Their gelatinous forms pressed close, cool and soft, thrumming reassurance. Safe, safe, safe, they pulsed, their little voices echoing through his core. Danny buried his face against one, letting the low hum of their affection soothe some of the shaking from his bones.

Still, his thoughts refused to quiet. Every inhale dragged in the scent of chalk dust and ectoplasm, every exhale trembled with the memory of a cape brushing his shoulder and a proto-core pulsing too close to his own.

Damian’s proto-core was growing stronger. And familiar, frighteningly familiar. Why did it feel like he’d sensed it before, long before he ever set foot in Gotham? What did that mean?

Danny squeezed his eyes shut, but the sensation lingered—like threads winding between them no matter how much he tried to cut them loose.

Cores, even proto-cores, couldn’t lie. That was the difference between ghosts and humans. Humans lied all the time. It was baked into their very essence. But ghosts? Ghosts were pure emotion—and you couldn’t fake that, even if you wanted to. Humans could train poker faces, could train their hearts to beat normal as they lied to your face. Ghosts didn’t have that.

Damian’s core had been practically screaming at Danny. He could feel the echo of it even now, tugging in his chest. Don’t leave—please—stay stay stay .

But that was impossible. Damian couldn’t know that Danyal al Ghul was Nightingale. Sure, he’d assumed that Nightingale was a clone, but there was no reason to jump from Damian clone straight to my dead brother is actually alive . 

His breath hitched, body curling tighter as if that would block the connection. He could still feel Robin’s proto-core thrumming insistently to his, like it was clawing at the distance to reach him.

Danny hated how much his own core wanted to answer back, to declare what his all-too-human heart couldn’t bear to face. Brother. Brother. Brother.

And Batman—Nightwing?—no, Batman , because even if the man wasn’t Father, he still held himself differently while wearing the cowl. Less fun–bright–lithe and more guardian–shadows–steadfast. Danny’s chest clenched at the memory of that cape draping across his shoulders, just for an instant. His core had gone still, the storm inside silenced by that heavy line of fabric. Safe . He wasn’t used to strangers feeling safe. Not since Amity. Not since the betrayal. Not since—

A sound like a wounded animal tore in his throat. The blob ghosts chirped at him in worry.

That cape wasn’t supposed to feel like safety, like family , not when those things had been literally ripped out of him. Not when family meant vivisection tables and scalpels, hands that claimed to help but carved into him instead. Safety from guardians, from parents, wasn’t real. And yet his core had gone still. Safe, it whispered stubbornly, Baba.

Danny’s hand clenched tighter around the pocketwatch, manifested claws scraping against the etched gears and runes. Clockwork’s sigils shimmered faintly in the gloom of Gotham’s night, answering his touch.

Robin had given him this watch. Damian . Someone who shouldn’t even know the Time Keeper existed.

Clockwork only ever gave these to his Fraidmates, few there were. He had no need for them himself, as the Ancient of Time, but was quick to give his fellows a piece of him to keep close to them.

Danny had only ever met one person of Clockwork’s Fraid. And now this—

His breathing stuttered. Could it be? Could Damian know Clockwork’s—No. No, that was dangerous thinking. That was impossible. Clockwork never said—never explained—but. Since when does Clockwork explain anything clearly to Danny?

If Damian had a pocketwatch, it meant something. But how did he get it? Why? And why now, when everything else in his world was already falling apart?

Clockwork, you bastard, what are you planning this time?

The thought was oddly fond.

The watch trembled faintly in his grip. Danny pressed it to his chest, curling around it as though he could smother his conflicting emotions. But the resonance only grew louder. Threads twined tighter, weaving him into a tapestry he wasn’t sure he wanted to belong to.

“Stop,” he whispered, voice breaking. “Please stop. I need a chance to breathe .”

Silly Phantom, you did that when you fell asleep in your grave for two months.

The blobs chirruped anxiously, pressing tighter against his sides, their cool forms vibrating with worry. Safe. Safe. Safe, they pulsed, their little voices echoing through his core. Danny wanted to believe them. Wanted to drown in their comfort. But the questions wouldn’t let go.

Robin’s proto-core. Batman’s cape. Clockwork’s pocketwatch. Threads weaving tighter and tighter until he couldn’t tell if they were stitching him together or suffocating him.

“Nightingale.”

Danny jerked his head up. Jazz was there. Psyche.

A spare domino mask, clearly borrowed, clung awkwardly across her face, not quite fitting the curve of her cheeks. Her hair had been tied back and pinned out of the way, and she wore dark layers of clothing pulled snug to her frame, practical, without the loose hems that could catch in a draft or sharp corner. It was a disguise cobbled together in haste, but it was better than nothing.

Jazz took in his curled posture, the trembling hands clutching the pocketwatch, blob ghosts squished against his ribs purring desperately.

She crossed the roof quickly. She crouched slowly, easing herself down into the space at his side. Her shoulder brushed his, warm and solid, and her voice came soft. “Easy. I’m here. Breathe with me, Nightingale.”

Danny’s grip on the pocketwatch was so tight his hands had gone numb. Jazz gently touched his wrist, guiding his hands down with steady, careful pressure until his arms loosened. She took the pocketwatch from his now-lax grip and tucked it into one of his belt pouches. She set her other hand lightly between his shoulder blades, rubbing slow circles, coaxing him out of the tight ball he’d folded himself into.

“Sit up, come on,” she encouraged, her tone soothing. “Lower your shoulders a little. There you go. Now—take out your sword.”

Danny blinked. What about his sword? “What do you—”

“Your wakizashi,” Jazz clarified. Danny could tell that she was being very careful about staying calm and steady for him. Through their Fraid bond, he could hear the truth—she was worried. Frightened by the extent of his reaction. Even still, her voice remained steady. “I know you’ve been itching to take care of it but haven’t had a spare moment to. No time like the present. Take out your supplies—and clean with slow, even strokes. The rhythm will help ground you to the present.”

The blobs hummed their chorus of safe, safe, safe , as if echoing her words. Slowly, with fingers that trembled less under her guidance, Danny drew the short blade from his thigh where it stayed with his thermoses of ectoplasm. The sheath and handle were stained with his old blood and ectoplasm. The blade itself was cleaner, but dulled with age and lack of proper care. His chest squeezed at the sight.

Jazz leaned hard against his non-dominant arm, lending him her weight as if to anchor him in place. “What’s on your mind, Nightingale?” she asked in a murmur. “What feels the loudest right now? Robin? I know you ran into him the other night.”

Danny pulled supplies from his belt pouch. He lined everything up on the gravel rooftop in front of him. Side by side by side, lined up evenly spaced and orderly. Steady. He picked up his leather cleaning agent and wet a rag with it. Pressed it to the surface of the sheath. Drew it down, once, slow. His chest stuttered at the sight of blood and ecto being flaked away. “Robin’s proto-core—it feels like I’ve felt it before. I don’t know why.”

Jazz paused, nodding slowly in thought. “Do you think he’s died before?” she asked.

Danny barked a hoarse laugh, spilling a little cleaning agent onto his costume. “Oh, I know he has. The Lazarus Pit, which is a pool of nasty ectoplasm, it was used by Grandfather frequently to revive himself and other dead. Drives you mad temporarily. 0/10 don’t recommend. I remember one guy, Mother called him the General. He was cool. But he was dead so long that the madness…never really faded? I wonder if he’s okay, actually.” Danny tipped his head back and looked up at the starless sky. Was the General even alive, he wondered. Or was he driven back to the grave by his madness? Danny hoped not. He hoped the guy finally found some peace. The few times Danny had been with him and the man was clear-headed… well. He’d almost considered him an older brother.

“And Robin’s been dipped in it before?” Jazz’s voice tipped high with worry, pulling Danny from his thoughts.

Danny turned to her, confused. “Um, yeah? The only reason I never was…well. I wasn’t the heir like ahki was. I was able to avoid a lot of the trials he went through.”

Jazz squeezed his arm, shock clear in her expression. “Robin is Damian Wayne ?” she hissed in his ear.

Danny rapidly blinked. “Yeah? Did I not…?” Danny paused his movements cleaning the leather, thinking over the past few weeks. Looking for when he told Jazz and the others that Damian Wayne was his brother. Did I never tell them that the Waynes are the Bats?

Oh. Oops.

Danny smiled, wobbly and weak, in Jazz’s direction. “...Surprise?”

Jazz sighs and loosens her grip on Danny’s arm. She nudges him in the side, carefully avoiding the blob ghosts, and smiles back. “You’d forget your head if it wasn’t attached to you,” she teased.

Danny chuckled, resisting the urge to rub the back of his neck. His hands were a little too full for that. “Yeah, probably,” he agreed easily.

Jazz sits silent, pondering that for a long while. Danny picks back up his rag and goes back to cleaning his wakizashi. The shining red of the leather, clean though needing a good polishing, set Danny’s mind and core at ease. The purring of the blob ghosts subsided a little as he calmed, settling into gentle coos.

Then Jazz tensed, sending immediate alarm bells through Danny’s head. “Does that mean Batman is—?”

Oh. Danny forcibly relaxed. That. “Yeah,” he confirmed. “He’s Father.” He paused, then, looking into the far distance. “But… the Batman I saw today. That wasn’t Father.”

Jazz frowned. “What do you…?”

Danny turned wide-eyed to Jazz. “I thought it was, at first. I was going to hide the minute they noticed me there. I don’t want anything to do with Father. But. Robin talks about Father in a certain way, at least when I’ve heard him talk about Father. He’s usually bitter, frustrated. So when Robin spoke to this Batman and he didn’t sound like those things…”

“Then…who is he?” Jazz asked, nudging his hands into working on cleaning the wakizashi again. He went back to the task, glad to have his hands working in time with his mind. 

“That’s just it—this Batman was Nightwing !” he crowed, voice tipping into excitement. “Which is weird—why would Nightwing stuff himself into something as stifling as a Batman suit? I mean, his whole deal is jumping and flipping and being a menace to crooks. Batman is just…so not that. It makes no sense—”

Jazz hummed, knocking her temple gently against Danny’s. “Maybe if Batman needs to be in two places at once?” she suggested.

“Maybe,” Danny allows. “But still, I was freaking stunned when I approached and I witnessed Batman smile at me! Smile! Batman! I can’t even imagine Father smiling—”

“But isn’t he…?”

“Yeah, okay, you have a point.” Danny bit his lip, considering it. “But that’s…a persona, right? I went looking through old articles and—Brucie just screams fake to me. Does it not, to you?”

“If he were actively hiding that he was Batman, then acting the total opposite as a civilian would be a great way to avoid suspicion,” she agreed.

Danny set down the leather cleaning supplies, happy with the now blood-free feel of leather beneath his hands. It was far from perfect, but it was much better than it had been. Sorry for getting you dirty , he thought, running his hand gently down the length of the sheathe. You didn’t deserve all that while I was busy sleeping off my mortal wounds .

The blade, thankfully, doesn’t respond. So Danny didn’t have to worry about a semi-sentient sword that absorbed too much ectoplasm. Good. That was one thing going for him.

He unsheathed his wakizashi carefully and handed the blade carefully to his sister, letting her hold it in the crook of her arm as he cleaned the dirt and grit from the inside of the sheathe. “It was odd, though,” he finally continues. “When I realized that this Batman was the same man ahki had been calling baba …”

“He does?” Jazz practically coos. “That’s so sweet. He must really trust Nightwing a lot.”

“Yeah.” Danny nods, lips pulled up into a smile without thought. “It surprised me, too. Ahki was always so…cold, before. Hardened by the training Grandfather and Mother forced on him. Understandable, now that I’ve had years to process everything, but… It had hurt, you know? Knowing he didn’t love me. That I was the spare.”

Jazz leans her weight harder into him. “You’re not a spare, Dan—Nightingale.”

Danny chuckled. “Danningale, isn’t that what Tucker said earlier? Guess I need to change my alias, after all.”

Jazz flicked him softly, smiling. “You’re deflecting.”

Danny smiled back and exaggeratedly rolled his eyes. “Worrywart,” he teased. Then he flicked his hand, dismissing the train of thought. “Anyway, back to Nightwing-Batman. He was…something. I’ve always thought of Batman as a dark, looming presence, and I’m sure he still is to crooks, but he was just… steady. Understanding. Almost… protective?”

“Of Robin?” she asked.

“Of me,” he corrected. Then he blinked. “Well yes, also of Robin. But something about the guy… When the cave started shaking, he immediately dove for both of us at the same time to cover us with his cape. It helped that Robin was moving in sync with him, but… It was odd. Having him immediately jump to covering me like that.”

He thought for a long moment, finishing up cleaning the inside of his wakizashi sheath, blob ghosts thrumming gently next to his core. Jazz let him sit in silence, probably well aware that he was trying to gather his thoughts. She was a real psychologist like that. Plus, they’d had several years to learn each other as siblings. There was no one who knew him better than Jazz, not even Sam and Tucker, though they certainly came close.

Danny breathed in a steadying breath, exchanging his sheath for the blade Jazz was holding. He reached for his blade care supplies. “While I was under Batman’s cape, I felt… safe ,” he admitted.

Jazz’s silence was loaded with questions, though she asked none of them. She soothingly rubbed between his shoulder blades, under his cape.

Danny’s breath hitched, his eyes starting to burn with instinctual emotion. “While I was under there. My core went quiet. Still.” His voice cracked. “It only did that recently when we were all together a few hours ago. It’s been… forever ago, before that. That Batman made me feel that way… That’s not supposed to happen. Adults aren’t safe. Not after—” His jaw locked, words breaking.

Jazz pressed her shoulder more firmly into his, letting him lean as much as he needed. Danny could smell the salt of tears coming from her, though her tone stayed even. “You’re safe now, little brother. I’ve got you.”

His thoughts finally settled enough to quiet—though perhaps that was more to the emotional exhaustion than anything else—Danny focused his energy to the pattern of cleaning his blade. The knowledge was old and rusty, but as he worked the muscle memory kicked in, till he was able to drift while cleaning. His sister was a warm line against his side, the blob ghosts were calm enough to start exploring beyond clutching close to his core, and Danny’s movements were sure and true, the blade returning to a polished shine under his hands.

Before he could reach for a whetstone to begin sharpening the blade, Batman and Robin landed on the far side of the rooftop. Robin’s cape snapped in the night wind. Batman’s silhouette loomed, silent and implacable. Both gazes locked immediately onto the pair crouched near the rooftop’s edge.

Danny and Jazz went still.

Danny’s fingers froze on the hilt of his wakizashi. His instincts screamed to hide , but Jazz was already moving. Calmly, she shifted her body, angling herself between the Bats and her brother. Her disguise—the ill-fitting domino mask, tied-up hair, and snug dark layers—looked almost comical beside Gotham’s legends, but her presence radiated iron determination.

“Stay calm,” she murmured, low enough for only Danny to hear. She handed him his wakizashi sheath, which he quickly took from her to sheath the blade. Her hand brushed his forearm lightly before dropping back to her side, a grounding touch. “Let me handle this.”

Robin’s eyes narrowed, sharp and bright beneath his mask. They flicked from Jazz to the blade in Danny’s hands. His voice cracked at Danny like a whip— “Where did you get that sword?”

Danny flinched. Shit . The words struck like its own blade through his ribs. His mouth worked soundlessly, panic rising. Shit!

If Robin hadn’t thought about the connection of Danyal al Ghul and Nightingale before, then this just sealed Danny’s fate. Even if he didn’t believe it at first, the seeds of doubt had been sowed. Nightingale, wielding the blade thought safe 6 feet under Danyal al Ghul’s gravestone—

Shit, all he does is mess things up!

Jazz took a single step forward, her body blocking Robin’s line of sight. Her tone was cool, level, unshaken. “Focus on what you brought,” she said smoothly, as if the question had never been asked. “You mentioned supplies for cave-in prevention?”

Batman’s gaze lingered on her for a moment, unreadable in the dark. Finally, his deep voice rumbled: “Yes. Forcefield projectors and gear to protect against structural damage and debris. We also brought a few grappling guns for Nightingale’s use.” He shifted the pack sitting heavy over his shoulder, producing one of the compact devices. His eyes tracked over her, assessing. “Before we continue. What can we call you?”

Jazz inclined her head slightly, calm as ever. “Call me Psyche.”

Robin bristled at being shut down and ignored, but Batman’s hand pressing to his shoulder seemed to placate him at least a little. Their attention turned toward the entrance to the cavern below. Jazz let the moment pass, then eased a half-step back, giving Danny the chance to tuck his sword away, back into its place hidden in his thigh. His core pulsed in relief at having the blade hidden, the sight of its steel no longer laid bare to questioning eyes.

“Lead the way,” Batman ordered.

Psyche turned with perfect composure, angling herself to walk alongside Batman while Danny fell in behind them, the blob ghosts hovering protectively at his shoulders. Robin stalked close by, silent but tense, his core’s attention prickling at Danny’s senses like static.

Danny kept his eyes down, breath careful, and clung to the phantom weight of his wakizashi in him—anchoring him.

Jazz’s steady voice carried just ahead, fielding each question Batman posed about the wards and the portal. Every answer she gave was calm, deliberate, and protective. Every step kept the weight off Danny’s shoulders just a little longer.

But still, the panic buzzed in tune with the burn of Robin’s eyes on him.

Why wasn’t he saying anything? It wasn’t like Damian to hold back. Not in anything. Questions, accusations, attacks… It was weird, and awkward, trailing behind Jazz and Batman with Robin glaring silently at his back.

Not that Danny was going to break the silence. No siree. He had a few remaining brain cells, few they may be. At least one of them knew that bringing attention to himself would only worsen things further.

He’d already messed up enough as it was.

Stupid, stupid, stupid!

The air grew heavier the deeper they went, the portal’s hum vibrating through the stone and into the marrow of everyone’s bones. The forcefield projectors clicked faintly as Batman set them into place along the walls, their shimmer casting angular shadows across the stone. Robin moved with sharp efficiency beside his mentor, arming each projector with sure movements. Soon the whole ceiling of the cavern glowed in a grid dome high over the portal. 

All the while, Danny felt his brother’s attention trained on him.

Danny kept his head bowed, lips pressed tight, chalk and wires in his unsteady hands. He focused on the sigils half-sketched across the floor, anything but the way Robin’s core thrummed like a beacon toward his own. The blob ghosts hovered close to Danny, purring their own soft mantra of safe, safe, safe , hoping that if it was repeated often enough, his core would believe it .

Jazz—Psyche—kept close, positioning herself always between Danny and the Bat’s line of sight. She held her arms loosely at her sides, her presence open, her voice steady. Every question Batman posed, she answered with measured precision. For every question Batman tried to level at Nightingale himself, Psyche rose to answer instead.

Her cadence was steady, but Danny could feel the strain beneath her words. She wasn’t afraid—but she was taut as a bowstring, holding the weight for him.

Danny promised himself that he’d get her something nice for this. Maybe he’d ask Harley if she had any books to recommend to Jazz? They’d gotten along like a house on fire. It had been nice to see her excited over someone she looked up to, for once.

The cave shuddered faintly. Dust sifted down in lazy spirals from the ceiling. The portal pulsed, green light licking at the edge of its frame like a heart struggling to burst free. Sigils nearest the threshold flickered in and out, unstable, like faulty lights trying to stay lit. The hum of it scraped along Danny’s nerves, making his hands shake harder.

Danny’s almost-claws scraped against stone. His breath came too shallow. He forced himself lower, marking one line, then another, connecting circuits to the tech nodes he’d placed earlier. Sweat rolled down the back of his neck, his core fluttering from nerves. The chalk stick he held snapped, too much pressure applied, and for a moment his vision swam. He fumbled for a new piece with a muttered curse, the blobs crooning louder, pressing against his sides.

Robin’s voice cut sharp across the cavern: “Nightingale.”

Danny flinched but didn’t look up. Jazz’s reply was instant, calm with iron underneath. “He’s fine. Give him space to work.”

Robin’s mouth pressed into a thin line, but he said nothing more. His core, however, still pulled and tugged at Danny’s, insistent and restless. Worried worried worried , it said.

Scared nervous worried, Danny’s echoed back.

The portal boomed suddenly, the sound like a deep drumbeat against his ribs. The forcefield projectors flickered, struggling to compensate to the strain. The cavern’s hum rose higher, jagged and shrill, rattling through the supports. The air itself felt charged, like a storm about to break.

Danny hissed under his breath, pulling more power to fuel the sigils under his hands. “No no no no no, not now, I’m almost done—”

The wards flared, light spreading outward like veins across the cavern floor, but the instability didn’t cease. It only grew louder, faster, as if the portal itself knew the trap was nearly set. The air grew hotter, the shimmer of the barrier bending like water under strain.

Batman’s hand twitched toward his belt, calculating contingencies. Robin crouched low, eyes darting between the portal and Nightingale, his body coiled as if ready to spring. Jazz kept herself steady in the middle, voice low and calm: “Deep breaths, Nightingale. You can do this. You’re almost done.”

Right. Right, he had this.

Danny forced himself to take a deep breath.

Unfortunately, his vision was blurring with exhaustion. He blinked hard, dragging the chalk down to finish another sigil, his wrist screaming at the angle. His core howled with the effort of pulling too much energy to fuel the wards, every pulse a painful echo in his chest. The blobs pressed tighter, their little voices rising into a desperate chorus. Safe, safe, safe!

The portal convulsed, a ripple of green flame bursting outward to slam against the forcefields. The cavern groaned, stone cracking faintly above. Supports creaked and rattled.

Danny’s hand shook over the final sigil. The chalk hovered above the stone. His breath hitched, throat dry.

The hum rose to a shriek .

The shaking rattled teeth and set every bone trembling, a stifling weight that reeked of ozone and ectoplasm. Danny forced the chalk down, dragging the last line into place, but before he could close the circle—

Green fire exploded outward.

The backlash slammed into Danny’s chest, throwing him back against the cave wall. The blobs wailed as they tumbled after him, and Danny heard Jazz scream .

The forcefield projectors screamed under the impact, light flickering like broken glass before collapsing entirely. The supports groaned, cracks spiderwebbing across the ceiling. Dust and pebbles rained down, the whole cavern trembling with the force of the breach.

Shapes poured through the portal—ghosts. Many of them. Some flickered like static, others roared in solid, jagged forms of bone-white and acid green. Their howls filled the chamber, the sound a chorus of fury and hunger as they spilled into Gotham’s world.

“Move!” Batman barked, voice cutting through the chaos. His cape snapped wide as he surged forward, barreling toward Danny and Jazz with Robin at his heels, grappling guns already primed and ready.

“Jazz!” Danny croaked, dragging himself upright on shaking arms. He turned himself towards his sister, who was half-collapsed on the ground. “ Jazz !”

Robin was faster—he darted in, seizing Jazz by the arm and pulling her bodily toward the exit as a slab of rock sheared loose from the ceiling. She stumbled but didn’t resist, her eyes locked on Danny until the last possible second. “Danny! Come on!” she shouted as the ground cracked beneath her and Robin's feet.

“But the wards—they're almost finished—”

Danny staggered, trying to hold the threads of the jagged wards together, but the backlash ripped through him, scattering his strength like leaves in a gale. His fingers scraped helplessly against the stone, chalk crumbling in his grip.

The cave ceiling buckled.

Batman’s gauntlet closed around Danny’s collar a breath before the ceiling gave way, hauling him bodily toward the exit. Robin dragged Jazz clear as another support groaned and collapsed. The cavern’s roar swallowed everything, stone and ghostlight cascading together as the portal ripped wider and the last of the wards disintegrated into sparks.

They burst into the night air just as the cavern gave way behind them, a thunderous collapse that sent shockwaves rattling through the ground. Danny coughed and hacked up dust, vision swimming, barely able to focus on the Gotham skyline beyond.

Green lights already streaked the sky.

Ghosts were spilling across the rooftops, laughing and wailing cries echoing over the city. Gotham’s night had been claimed, the balance broken.

Below them, a gaping crater slowly emerged as stone and concrete and steel fed itself into the portal below, until all that was left was the portal itself, spreading its toxic green light against the smog of Gotham’s sky.

All you do is mess things up , Danny thought, heart sinking to his hollow stomach.

And he knew…he just knew that this was only the beginning.

Fuck .

Chapter Text

“No no no no no, it’s all my fault!”

Robin watches as Nightingale—Danyal, it’s his brother!—sag to his knees, held up only by the grip Batman had on his collar. The boy clutched hands that looked eerily like claws into the reinforced material on his chest, digging in harshly. His words spilled out rapid-fire, broken and jagged:

“I always mess things up—I’m so stupid—I can’t even finish a simple ward—”

His breaths were shallow, too quick, his body trembling like a bowstring pulled too tight. The blob ghosts clustered close at his sides, pulsing faintly with anxious chirps, nuzzling against his ribs and chin in a desperate attempt to soothe him. But he wasn’t hearing them anymore. His core screamed louder, rattling the air with each unstable beat.

Psyche—Danyal had called her Jazz. Was that short for Jasmine, like the daughter of the Drs. Fenton?—was already at his shoulder, her hands braced firm but gentle on either side of his face, her voice low and calm. “Danny. Breathe with me. One breath in. One breath out. You are not a failure.” Her own voice wavered with the strain of holding steady, but she anchored herself anyway, for him.

It wasn’t enough. Danyal shook his head violently, words spilling faster, tangled and sharp. “No no no, I broke it, I broke everything. The ghosts—Gotham—it’s on me. All on me. I should have—I should’ve—”

Robin’s fists clenched at his sides. He couldn’t stand still any longer. He strode forward, words sharp and commanding before he could temper them. “You are not weak! You are not the reason the cave collapsed. You—”

Danny’s head snapped up, his eyes flashing Lazarus green through his domino mask, his voice ragged with fury. “Don’t you dare. I would’ve finished the wards an hour ago if you and Batman hadn’t dragged me out! You wanted—you made me stop—and now look at—! Gotham’s drowning in ghosts because I couldn’t finish the wards!” His voice fractured, and heavy tears spilled from under his domino mask. “I can’t…I can’t—”

The blob ghosts let out low, distressed chirrups, pressing tighter against him as if their closeness alone could stop him from shaking apart.

Robin froze, retort dying in his throat. He had tried to pull his brother back, and instead had shoved him further into the fire.

He was bad at comforting victims, he knew that. Empathy was difficult for him. But the fact that this was Danyal, his own flesh and blood? The failure cut deep.

Batman shifted. No—Richard shifted. Not the stoic weight the man usually wore to emulate Father, but the kind warmth of the man underneath the cowl.

That’s right. Damian was poor at comfort, but Richard “Dick” Grayson was an expert.

Richard released his grip on Nightingale’s collar only to kneel, bringing himself eye-level with the boy shaking before him.

“Hey, Nightingale,” he said with a warm smile. “Has Robin told you about his Bat-Cow yet?”

Nightingale froze mid-breath, his tear-stung eyes snapping to Batman with a look of startled disbelief. “Huh?” he hiccuped. “Wh-What? Bat…Bat-Cow?”

Richard nodded with faux-seriousness. He theatrically leaned in and whispered, “Robin rescued her from a slaughterhouse when he was ten,” sending a dramatic look over his shoulder at Robin, who could feel his face automatically flushing with heat. “He gave her a cape and declared her his sidekick.”

Nightingale couldn't seem to process that, stunned silent. “A…cow,” he finally managed. “Named Bat-Cow?”

Nightingale and Psyche both turned to look at Robin.

He bristled immediately at the attention, color rising to his ears. “She has a bat-shaped marking much like a domino mask! It is a fitting and noble name!”

“I think he was trying to emulate how I named everything Batman has,” Richard admitted with a smile. “Back when I was Robin, I had a blast naming everything after bats. Batmobile, batarang, Batcomputer. Everything had to be on-brand.”

Robin tt’d, crossing his arms and turning away with a dramatic swish of his cape.

(He’s not actually annoyed. He knows exactly the tactic that Richard was utilizing. Throwing absurd claims and statements at a panicking victim was a legitimate method of drawing them out of their spiraling. Even still. It was…embarrassing.)

Nightingale’s lips wobbled upwards into a weak smile, a laugh bubbling out of his chest. He stared at them, dazed, panic broken by the sheer absurdity. “You—you—bats—cows—”

Nightingale’s shoulders shook with the effort not to burst into laughter again.

Good. That thing in Damian’s chest eased as the panic drained out of his twin.

Richard’s smile warmed further. He patted Danyal's shoulder. “You back with us, Nightingale?” he asked kindly.

His brother's cheeks turned red. He ducked his head, rubbing the back of his neck self-consciously. “…Sorry,” he muttered to the ground. The trio of little ghosts surrounding him cooed and chirped.

“You have nothing to apologize for,” Richard rumbled in his Batman voice. Now that Nightingale was no longer panicking, Batman turned their attention back to the task at hand. “The wards around the portal. Can they be salvaged?”

Nightingale tilted his head in consideration. “...They’re not broken,” he finally said, as though he could sense them all the way from where they were. “I just didn’t get the chance to close the circle.”

“And how long would it take you to finish it?” Batman asked, now in planning mode.

“Like…two minutes, tops.” Nightingale ducked his head again. “...I almost finished it,” he muttered, despondent.

Robin restrained the urge to console his brother again. He would only receive Danyal’s understandable ire. However, that did not stop the feeling in his chest from reaching out towards his brother, whispering sorry sorry sorry.

He witnessed a shudder race down Danyal's body.

Batman squeezed Nightingale’s shoulder again. “I apologize for getting in your way,” he said with sincerity.

Nightingale did a double-take. Even Psyche paused in surprise. “H-Huh?”

Batman stood up to his full height, cape flaring dramatically. “While we weren’t aware that the portal would open when it did, and I made my judgement based on your safety, I apologize for what happened. It wasn’t my intention to interfere with your work.”

“O-Oh. Um.” Nightingale looked towards Psyche desperately. She shook her head, also lost, so Danyal turned back to Batman. “Thank you?”

Robin frowned. “I must also offer my apologies,” he said, making a guess as to why they're reacting in such a manner. “It would seem we served only as a distraction for you and your team.”

Nightingale…didn't seem to know what to do with that. “It's…fine? Well, it's not—there are ghosts all over Gotham now, but—”

“Yes,” Batman agreed, his voice carrying a firm weight that cut through the spiral before it could build again. “The ghosts are a problem, but not one you will face alone. This is not your burden to shoulder by yourself.”

Nightingale froze, shoulders hunched and eyes wide, as though the very idea had never occurred to him. His mouth opened, but no words came, only the faint rasp of breath. He turned instinctively toward Jasmine, searching for direction. Psyche’s steady hand came to rest against his back, grounding him, though even she seemed momentarily at a loss.

“I think they mean it, Nightingale,” she said, her voice hushed. “And I think… we need their help. For this.”

Nightingale’s shoulders hunched.

Batman leaned down, lowering his tone without losing its strength. “I can’t change what happened, but I can offer restitution. Tell us how to capture these ghosts safely, with as little conflict as possible, and we’ll act on it. All of us. The Bats, the Birds of Prey, all vigilantes of Gotham. We will spread out, contain them, and we’ll do it under your guidance.”

Nightingale’s lips trembled as though caught between laughter and tears. “You’d…actually listen? To me?”

Batman’s gloved hand settled once more on his shoulder, steady and warm through the armor. “You are the expert here. And I trust you.”

Danyal swallowed hard, then rasped, "Why? Why do you even trust me? I’m a stranger to you. For all you know, I could be lying—" His voice cracked and faltered, the words spilling out raw and defensive.

Robin stepped forward without hesitation, planting himself firmly at his Batman’s side. His chin lifted in sharp conviction as he declared, “I know you are genuine. I can sense it. Here.” He tapped his chest where the odd feeling thrumming brother brother brother was emanating from him and Danyal both. “You feel it too, do you not, ahki?”

Nightingale’s breath hitched. “You—I— How—”

Robin nodded, satisfied for now. He ignored the look his Batman was sending him. “We will have time to address both of our questions at a later date,” he told his brother. “For now, the ghosts take precedent.”

“But—” Whatever argument Nightingale wanted to make was cut off when a gasp tore from his throat. Before he clapped a hand to cover it, Robin noticed the air in front of his mouth condense in some kind of cold fog.

Interesting. Was Danyal a meta of some sort? They didn't have the gene, but that didn't mean that he hadn't gained some sort of ability from all of the radioactive ectoplasm found from the FentonWorks lab. 

Then again… Damian once had powers, too, back when he'd been freshly resurrected using the Apokolips shard.

Hm. Robin would have to get Drake or even Thomas to look into it, depending on the nature of the abilities involved.

In any case, the reaction seemed to bring Nightingale back to the task at hand. “Okay. I'll finish the wards so no one else gets through.” He pushed himself shakily to his feet, his sister helping him up. “Psyche, could you get Batman and Robin some thermoses and blasters and show them how they're used?”

Psyche nodded. “I'm calling Sparrow over to cover you,” she told him sternly, no-nonsense.

Nightingale sent Robin a look that he couldn't parse, but didn't argue with her judgment. He clenched his hands, steeling himself. “Fine. Alright, let's do this thing.”

Robin hated to be seperated from his brother, again, but he understood the urgency. While Psyche and Nightingale seemed to have a method of communicating with the rest of their team, Batman and Robin were cut off from the others due to the interference caused from the portal. 

While Batman turned his attention to Psyche, Robin grabbed Nightingale’s hand before he could jump into the crater made by the portal.

In League dialect, Robin told him, “May safety be your companion, brother. (Be safe, brother)”

Nightingale swallowed once, twice—before replying in a whisper: “At your command (I will).”

Nightingale squeezed Robin's hand, just this side of too tight, before tugging himself from Robin's grip and disappearing over the edge of the crater. 

Robin's now-freed hand hung in the air after his brother, his twin, before clenching into a fist. He forced himself to turn to his Batman, mind turning to the mission at hand. He pulled his shoulders back, tilting his chin up. Returning to peak posture. Hiding his nerves. 

He had to trust Danyal to keep his promise. 

Chapter Text

Dick could remember the day he met Damian like it was yesterday.

The boy had been ten years old, small for his age, all sharp lines and sharper eyes that cut through the air with practiced calculation. He was a trained assassin, raised in blood and shadows, and yet standing in Wayne Manor he looked like a lost child out of place, uncertain of his footing in a family of strangers.

What struck Dick most wasn’t Damian’s arrogance or his combat skills—it was the loneliness buried beneath it. Dick didn’t just see a miniature soldier in Damian, he saw himself: nine years old, all alone, and angry at the world for all it had stolen from him.

That was why he fought for Damian, why he worked so hard to gain the boy's regard, respect, and trust. Damian wasn’t just Robin—he was Dick's Robin.

(However, he would forever regret how he handled that with Tim. For all that he had been overwhelmed, how hard would it have been to sit Tim down before any decisions were made? That while, yes, Damian needed Robin to give him a reason to stay, Dick needed Tim, too? That if Gotham needed Dick to be Batman, maybe it also needed a Nightwing—and that was a role Tim would be more than suited to fill, if he wanted it?

He was proud of his brother for growing into his own role, but that didn't mean he didn't still regret how it happened. Hindsight, and all that.)

Never in his wildest dreams would Dick have imagined where the choice to take Damian under his wing would lead. That five years later, after bruises and battles and nights spent fighting in tandem, Damian wasn’t just his partner—he was Dick's son. Legal papers, arguments in court, nights spent fighting tooth and nail against Bruce, against the League, against fate itself—none of it mattered when Dick could look at his boy and be proud knowing that's my kid.

Look Mami, Tati, this is my Robin! Look at how smart, kind, and courageous he is! Have you seen how he proudly wears our colors? He's a real Flying Grayson!

And then life threw a twist sharper than any blade at them: Damian’s twin, thought long dead, resurfaced in Gotham. A twin not only alive, but standing in front of him in a suit that looked too familiar—a Robin suit, only color-swapped into black, silver, and Lazarus (ectoplasm?) green.

The boy’s eyes, wide and panicked as he struggled through a panic attack, stabbed clean to Dick's heart. Once again, the universe had delivered him a child carved from the same wounds Dick carried.

He’d wanted nothing more than to use his heavy Batman cape to drape over the boy’s shoulders again, hiding him from the world. Having both of them pressed against either side of Dick, protected by the cover of his cape—it had felt right. Like his hindbrain already recognized Nightingale as his kid.

He couldn’t help but wonder if this was the curse—or maybe the gift—of donning the Bat mantle. Did the cowl come with some kind of built-in adoption instinct, a need to scoop up every broken, angry child that stumbled into Gotham? Was that it? Or was it that this was Damian’s brother, a boy that looked so much like fiule (my son)?

He couldn’t be sure. All Dick knew was that, in that moment, as he stared at Damian’s long lost twin, he felt the same thing he'd felt years ago: that aching recognition of a boy who just wanted somewhere—somebody—he could trust not to hurt him.

If time had been on his side, Dick would have taken things slow. Introduce himself through more interactions similar to Dick popping by Harley and Pam's house. Test the waters, let Danny and the other kids warm up to him. Be patient and welcoming, because Danny'd obviously inherited Bruce and Talia's paranoia and stubbornness. 

Time, as always, was not on Dick's side.

Ghosts. Just thinking about them gave him a headache. Dick had never liked dealing with the undead and spirits—not because he was scared, but because he didn’t like the implications. Too many loved ones had been lost over the years. God, what if Jason had become one of these Infinite Realms ghosts? Or even Damian?

The thought made his stomach twist.

And, even worse, these beings operated on different rules from the living world, at least according to anyone who knew about them. They were powerful, unpredictable, and half the time they seemed to play by their own brand of morality. And now? Now he had to worry about an entire dimension of them breathing down their necks.

Tracking down the elusive High King Phantom was mayhem. The League and the JLD had been chasing shadows for months, only to come up empty-handed. And Danny—a boy who’d obviously fled from something—apparently knew the guy? It just didn’t sit right with Dick. Something more was going on.

Two months. Two months of nothing. Zilch. Nada. All of them were exhausted and definitely not feeling the aster. If they didn’t find Phantom soon, they weren’t just going to lose their chance—they were going to spark a war with an entire universe of super-powered dead people with no concept of mortality.

And then–and then!—a portal appeared. In Gotham.

Jason, of course, had joked that the king was probably holed up in Gotham all along. Dick hated to admit it, but he’d been right. Which meant Phantom had been hiding right under their noses for two months. Ugh.

If the FentonWorks tech hadn’t carried such a high chance of harming ghosts—or worse, triggering an injured Phantom and causing him to fly into a rage—they would have used it months ago to track him down. Instead, they’d been left fumbling in the dark. And now? Now it looked like the darkness had been camped out in their backyard the whole time!

To make things even more complicated, their most knowledgeable ally in this mess was a traumatized teenager decked out in a knockoff Robin suit.

A teenager…who was throwing himself into the crater with the dangerous portal.

Why was Dick not surprised?

Dick turned to Psyche, who he assumed to be Jasmine “Jazz” Fenton and Danny’s adoptive sister (and it had torn Dick’s heart to hear them call each other’s real names in the heat of the moment, knowing how scared they must have been), to gauge her reaction. Every instinct screamed at him to run after the boy and haul him out of danger, but he knew young vigilante types too well, having been one himself (and having raised one for 5 years). Better to see what his sister, who knew him best, wanted to do.

For her part, Psyche just sighed wearily and raised a phone to her ear.

The line erupted with noise the moment she opened it—shouting, clattering, something crashing in the background. Dick couldn’t make out more than fragments. Someone asking if everyone was okay. Another voice snapping that someone had finally called. The sound of mayhem. None of them sounded older than Danny or Jazz themselves.

Dick noted Robin approaching from his periphery, movements reluctant. The boy was keeping one close eye on the crater the whole time. Understandable, Dick thought to himself. Still, he was glad Robin had restrained himself from following after Nightingale. Dick knew how hard that must have been.

Psyche cut off the voices on the other end to soothe them. “I’m fine, Nightingale is fine. No new injuries beyond a few scrapes. Don’t worry. I’ll update you on the situation in a moment.” Her tone shifted, taking charge: “Hey, Sparrow? How fast can you get here? Nightingale needs backup at the portal while I coordinate efforts with Batman and Robin.”

There was a pause, followed by a voice much, much younger than Dick had expected. A preteen, at the oldest. “Depends. Am I allowed to fly?”

Psyche shoots Dick a look, face tensed in a poor poker face. He wasn't sure if it was her asking for permission or if she was just checking his reaction to hearing someone discuss what was obviously a meta ability.

Either way, he nodded at her.

Psyche nodded back. “Go for it,” she confirmed. Sparrow cheered on the other end of the line. “But be careful, Sparrow! Do not go off after any ghosts you see. And stay hidden, please.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Sparrow brushes off. “Be there in a minute!”

Dick wasn’t sure what unnerved him more: the whole…situation with the Infinite Realms and its king, or the realization that Gotham’s newest supernatural crisis was now balanced on the shoulders of kids.

Was this how the Justice League felt whenever the Teen Titans or Young Justice pulled a stunt? God, Dick was getting old.

Psyche didn’t stop there. She continued talking into the phone, her voice shifting from weary sister to field commander. “Pharoah, do we have any thermoses or communicators to spare for the Bats?”

One of the voices, likely male, answered over the line in a volume that was underscored by background commotion—metal clattering and a voice swearing as something crashed. “I’ll scrounge up what I can. Might not be much, but I can make it work.”

“Good,” Psyche said. “Nightshade? Any ecto-blasters or other weapons we can spare?”

Another voice, female and clipped, responded, “I’ll look.”

“Meet us at the portal in half an hour, then,” Psyche ordered. More muffled affirmations came through over the chaos of gear being moved and pounding footsteps.

Before she could end the call, Pharoah spoke up again, his voice now edged with unease. “Hey…uh, what about this ‘Strix’ lady that’s been hanging around us? I mean, Nightingale said something about recognizing her? What should we do?”

Psyche’s gaze slid immediately to Dick, silently asking if he knew Strix.

He nodded, though a curl of apprehension tugged at him. What did it mean that Nightingale had “recognized” her? Had they met before? Strix wasn’t exactly a limelight sort of hero—outside of Gotham, almost no one knew her name. Even inside Gotham, she was as elusive as Black Bat, if not more so. Had she met the boy beforehand and just not mentioned it to anyone? He'd have to ask Babs when he next got the chance.

Nodding back, Psyche held the communicator out to him, mic facing him.

Dick stepped forward, taking the communicator in hand. “Strix is an ally,” he said firmly, falling into his deeper Batman voice. “She is a member of the Birds of Prey. If you could get one of her spare comms, she can connect you with Oracle. Mind that our communicators do not currently work when close to high levels of ectoplasm, so the portal has shorted out our tech.”

“Did he just say Oracle?” Pharoah asked from far away, sounding disbelieving and excited equally.

“Focus, Pharoah!” Nightshade snapped.

“Right! Right, yeah! I’ll ask!”

Satisfied, Psyche gave a short nod to Dick as he returned her communicator to her. “In that case--new plan. Give all you can to Strix so that she and her team can divvy out supplies. Then, coordinate with Oracle. They'll need your expertise."

"Expertise!" crowed Pharaoh, followed by a soft oof! and a scolding comment from Nightshade.

"I've got to go now," said Psyche. "Call if you need anything, you two."

Only after more muffled confirmations did she finally hang up. She exhaled, squared her shoulders, and turned to Dick with a look that said she expected him to keep up.

“Alright,” she began. “None of this is going to be fun. I didn’t recognize any of the ghosts that came out of the portal from first glance, so we will be going mostly blind. However, there are certain factors about ghosts that—”

Robin tensed suddenly, hand snapping to his sheathed katana.

A small comet of green light dove down into the crater.

“Don’t,” Psyche stopped Robin from moving to leap after it. “That was Sparrow.”

Robin’s shoulders didn’t relax. “Sparrow is an ectoplasmic being, then?”

Dick’s eyebrows shot up. He hadn’t been expecting that. “What do you mean, Robin?” he asked, keeping his voice steady even as unease twisted in his gut.

Robin turned slightly to him, still keeping his eyes trained toward the crater. He was very obviously apprehensive about leaving Nightingale so far out of sight. “When the ghosts funneled out of the portal, I could feel them. Here.” He tapped his chest, in the same spot he had referenced earlier. “That being. Sparrow. They have the same feeling as those from the Realms. That would make this Sparrow a ghost, would it not?” He turned to Psyche.

Psyche…hesitated, which didn’t bode well for Dick’s nerves. “Not exactly,” she hedged.

Robin absolutely scowled at that.

Psyche waved her hands much like Nightingale had done to placate them. “You’re not far off! It’s just…long-term exposure to ectoplasm and the Realms… it turned a lot of the people from Amity Park into what we call liminal. We essentially absorbed a lot of death magic. So. Some of us who absorbed more concentrated amounts? Or have a closer connection with death…?”

Psyche didn’t finish her thought.

Robin’s scowl deepened. “Does this imply that the portal being here will enhance these liminal traits in those who have died previously?”

That…was a chilling thought.

Before Dick could respond, something crashed in the distance. Dick cursed under his breath. They couldn’t wait any longer. They had already stalled for too long as it was.

“We need to move,” Dick ordered, slipping back into his Batman growl. “We're still in a dead zone with this portal in the way. Coordinating efforts with Oracle and intercepting what Realms ghosts we can, that takes priority."

He pulled a grappling gun from his belt and offered it to Psyche. “You’ll need this. Have you used one before?”

She immediately flushed, rubbing the back of her neck. “Oh, uh—I'm not that great a shot, to be honest with you.”

Dick smiled at her and re-holstered the gun. “Don't worry about it, Psyche. Are you okay with me carrying you instead?” At her nod, he hooked an arm around her waist and fired his own line, hauling them both up and out in a swift arc.

Robin was already vaulting ahead, face dark in a fierce scowl. His movements carried a sharp edge, anger and frustration leaking through every step and every swing. Dick’s gut clenched at the sight. Damian in that state was dangerous, not just to their enemies but to himself.

It wasn’t just worry for his twin brother—Dick could recognize the chains of the past that were weighing Robin down. A number of what-ifs, secrets, and anxiety over things he couldn’t control. Dick was all too familiar with that cold weight of failure. He hated seeing it line his Robin’s shoulders.

And even as he tracked Robin as he darted ahead of them, Dick’s mind slipped back to the portal behind them. Nightingale was still down there, in the thick of it. Another boy Dick had to keep safe, another child throwing himself into a war with no end.

The thought twisted something deep inside him—because how many times could he keep doing this? How many lost, angry kids could one man carry before he broke?

Suddenly, Dick felt a lot more respect for Bruce. As poor of a father figure as he was, he was a master vigilante and mentor figure. Dick didn’t know if he’d be able to stomach half of the things Bruce had done to train them to where they were, today. He’d barely managed with Damian—and that was with support. How was he going to manage another—Dick glanced down at Psyche, heart clenching at the thought of those young voices on the other end of her line—five kids?

The worry gnawed at him, heavy and unshakable, as they pressed forward into the dark.

Chapter Text

Dani yelped as her boots hit the cracked asphalt wrong, skidding on loose rubble. She windmilled her arms, barely catching herself before she could faceplant. Before she could steady herself, Danny was there—leaping away from glowing lines he’d been scratching into the ground to grab her by the elbows. His grip was firm, his expression sharp.

“Why did you go ghost?” he scolded in a low voice, like he was afraid of being overheard by the portal itself.

Dani wriggled out of his hold, tossing her hair back with a roll of her head. Fitted across her eyes was a domino mask, slightly too big for her. “Relax. With this thing open, what does it even matter if people see us? They already know ghosts are here!”

Three familiar shapes zipped out from behind Danny—the blob ghosts, their round forms chirping with delight.

Dani grinned at them. “Hey, guys!”

They dart around Dani, squeaking happy Fraid happy! and brushing against her arms before circling back to bob between the two halfas. Their presence lightened the tension, but not enough to ease the knot in Dani’s stomach. Ever since she’d followed Danny into Gotham, she’d felt that knot: the city was too heavy, too loud, too sad. Even the air tasted wrong—smoky, metallic, like it didn’t want you to breathe too deep.

Dani didn't regret following most of her Fraid to Gotham. She wondered just how worse off her template would have been, if she and the others hadn't come to join him. Stuck alone in this depressing, starless city… it made Dani shudder just to think it.

She trotted past Danny to the edge of the glowing maw of the portal, the green light reflected high in the Gotham night sky. “Wow… this portal is not normal. I could feel it juicing me up from across the district!” And she had—so much ecto concentrated in one place made her skin buzz, almost painfully. Part of her wanted to soak it in, to revel in the power. Another part whispered that too much of this was dangerous for herself and Danny. Especially for Danny, who always carried more weight than he should. The stupid martyr.

Danny joined her reluctantly, a blob on each shoulder, gaze fixed on the unnatural swirl of light. His voice was clipped, but there was weight behind it. “That’s because it’s not normal. This was a Lazarus Pit—I purified it days ago. Thought it would burn itself out and fade back into the Realms like all ectoplasm usually does when it’s exposed for too long. But… I guess there was too much ecto in one place? It ripped this portal open instead.”

The words made her shiver. Lazarus Pits were something she’d only heard of in whispers during her travels across the world, but she could see the way saying it out loud pressed on Danny, heavy and resigned. She wanted to ask if it hurt him, doing that much purification at once, but the tight set of his jaw told her she wouldn’t like the answer.

Danny crouched again, the glow of his chalk-and-tech work casting harsh shadows across his face. The wards hummed like live wires under his hands as he adjusted a sigil with steady precision.

Dani plopped herself down on a chunk of collapsed concrete just outside her brother/father/template’s ward circle, propping her chin in her hands. The third blob joined her, perching on top of her head. She giggled—it tickled. “So what are you even doing, exactly? Scribbling runes into the dirt isn’t exactly a quick fix.”

Danny didn’t look up, voice distracted as his fingers flicked over the etched lines. “Dotting i’s. Crossing t’s. These wards will make sure the dead can’t get out…” He pressed his palm flat against the center of a symbol, where the green glow intensified, “…and the living can’t get in.”

She tilted her head, lips quirking. “And what if you’re both?”

That finally got him to glance up. For a heartbeat the corner of his mouth tugged into a smirk. “Well someone has to be able to shove the ghosts back inside.” He punctuated the words with a wink before turning back to his work.

The blob on Dani's head squeaked approvingly, spiraling around Dani’s head before shooting back toward the wards. She laughed, but her eyes followed Danny. He looked tired. Too tired. His shoulders hunched, his movements precise but labored. She hated that about Gotham—the way it dragged on him, made him look smaller than he was. Amity had been a strain in its own way, but Gotham seemed to be swallowing him whole.

Dani kicked her feet idly against the slab, watching him work. “You know… you could finish this way faster if you just went ghost.”

Danny froze mid-mark, the chalk hovering above the stone. Slowly, he dragged his sleeve across his forehead, smearing sweat and grime, but his hand didn’t drop back down right away. Instead, it lingered at his chest. His fingers pressed lightly against the jagged ridges beneath his shirt—the places where vivisection scars had not healed correctly.

Her core clenched. She hadn’t seen those scars in detail, but she knew enough. Knew they still haunted him. Knew they hurt him.

He exhaled through his nose, eyes fixed on the glowing wards instead of her. “Faster doesn’t mean safer.”

Dani sat up straighter, frowning. “But hiding doesn’t mean safer either. The portal’s wide open, everyone’s seen the ghosts already—”

“Chaos works in our favor,” Danny cut in, his tone softer than his words. “The ghosts, the portal, the Bat’s running around… it all covers us. We can stay hidden in plain sight.” He finally looked at her, the corner of his mouth twitching into something like encouragement. “I mean, come on! You went through all this trouble picking your costume and choosing the alias ‘Sparrow’! You wanted to try it out, right? Being a Gotham vigilante. We should try playing the part properly. No powers involved.”

His hand dropped away from his chest as he set the chalk firmly against the stone again, movements more deliberate now. The wards pulsed, answering his touch. The blobs chirped in answer, echoing the pulse of energy.

With a final flourish of his stick of chalk, Danny pressed his palms flat against the runes. The circle flared, ectoplasmic green surging like a heartbeat through the cracks in the pavement. For a breathless moment the glow expanded, then settled into a steady beat, locking into place.

“Finally,” Danny muttered, pushing himself upright. His grin was wide but tired, sweat dripping down his temple. “That took way too long.”

Dani hopped off her perch, bouncing on the balls of her feet. Her chest eased, watching him smile, bright in the way she liked to see him. “Is it done? Does that mean we go chase some ghosts now?”

Danny’s grin only widened, sharp fangs flashing in the light. “Hell yeah we can.”

Dani whooped in excitement. Finally!

But before they could move, Danny's smile faded, replaced by something more serious. “One more thing. Dani—promise me you’ll be careful around Robin. I don’t…” He hesitated, thumb brushing absently over his scars. “I don’t know how I’d react if—if he hurt you. Even on accident. From his reaction, I think he's been hurt by clones before.”

Dani rolled her eyes, though her chest squeezed at his words. “Fine, fine. I’ll be careful. But only if you promise not to burn yourself out! You’re obviously exhausted.”

“I’m fine,” Danny said automatically.

She narrowed her eyes. “Lie like that again and I’ll tell Revive and Jazz you overdid it.”

Danny straightened immediately, glaring. “You wouldn’t.”

Dani’s grin sharpened into bared teeth. “Try me, bitch.”

Danny tt’d and turned away, muttering, “You couldn’t tell Revive anyway. He’s back in the Realms.”

“Like he wouldn’t learn how to make a portal the second he thought a Fraidmate of his overdid it,” Dani shot back. “Especially if it’s you who overdid it. Admit it, you're the favorite sibling.”

Danny pouted, shoulders hunching. He didn't try to argue, because frankly there was nothing to argue. Revive was, much like Vlad, Obsessed with Family, and Danny had helped the ghost learn to control his powers. To a ghost, that was more than enough to secure loyalty for all eternity. Dani would know, she was the same way with Danny.

At last, Danny sighed. “Fine. I’ll conserve my energy. But all bets are off in an emergency.”

Dani crossed her arms, satisfaction glittering in her eyes. “And I’ll be careful around Robin. But I’ll be sure to tell them if you break your promise, template. Remember that.”

Danny groaned, dragging his hand down his face. “You’re impossible.”

Dani smirked. “Runs in the family.”

The tension broke just enough for Dani to giggle, and when she sprang several feet into the air, the sound carried with her, echoing through the crater.

Hovering high in the air, she tilted her head down at him, skeptical. “Okay, moving on--what’s the plan for catching those loose ghosts? We can’t exactly fly without going ghost ourselves. It uses too much power to float like this!”

Instead of answering, Danny dug into his belt pouches. “Then it’s a good thing the good ol’ Bat offered a couple alternatives." He pulled out two sleek grappling guns. "Whaddaya say, Sparrow? Wanna figure out how to fly like a Gotham Bird?” He twirled one lazily by the handle, then tossed it to her with a smirk.

Dani caught it with both hands, her eyes lighting up. A giggle bubbled out of her as she spun midair, the blob ghosts circling her in delight. “Would I!?”

Their laughter seemed to brighten the whole of Gotham. Not by a lot...but enough. 

“You’re not supposed to be here, Constantine.”

Tim didn’t bother to glance away from his work at the Batcomputer as the warlock strode out of the zeta tube like he owned the place. His trench coat flared out behind him like some bedraggled cape, cigarette conspicuously absent for once. That, at least, was generous of him.

“Bats knows where he can shove it,” Constantine snapped, his accent rough around the edges, every syllable soaked in irritation. “I don’t have time for his bloody territorial bollocks. This is way bigger than Gotham’s turf wars.” He came to a stop just behind Tim’s chair, eyes narrowing at the glow of the monitors. “So. Be honest with me, mate—how fucked are we?”

Tim rubbed the bridge of his nose, fighting off the dull throb of a headache. “Eyewitness reports count about two dozen ghosts emerging from the portal as of ten minutes ago. None confirmed as Phantom yet. Batman and Robin are still too close to make contact. Retrieval team’s already en route to check on them.”

Behind him, Constantine let out a low whistle, then immediately cursed under his breath—stringing together a litany that might’ve impressed Jason if he’d been there. The man fished out a battered flask, shook it, and grimaced when it came up empty. Constantine slammed the empty flask onto the table by the batcomputer and began pacing, the hem of his coat whispering over the cave floor.

Tim sighed. He already regretted not relocating to the Nest to do this recon. At least there he wouldn’t be babysitting a panicking magician.

Then, the muttering rose in volume:

“Bloody hell, we’ve tried it all—summoning circles, binding rites, names of power. Every trick the Justice League Dark’s got. And you know what we got back? Nothing. Bugger all.” Constantine jabbed a finger at the monitors, his voice rising. “High King of the Infinite Realms, my arse. If he’s even half as injured as the spooks claim, he shouldn’t be able to hide from us. Should’ve come crawling the second he felt the pull. But it’s like he’s immune to summonings. Like he’s invisible!”

That made Tim pause. His fingers hovered over the keyboard, mind ticking into overdrive. Immune to summonings…? More like deliberately hiding.

His gaze drifted sideways, toward Alfred. The butler was restocking the med bay with his usual precision, movements calm and unhurried. Totally mundane. Normal.

But Tim couldn’t shake the memory of a few nights ago—his body running on fumes after seventy-two hours without sleep, hallucinations creeping in at the edges. He’d been tranqed after his ranting about his theory about Danny Fenton, Danyal al Ghul, and Danny Phantom totally being the same person. Because they were! It made total sense! And he could have sworn he saw Alfred’s eyes glow yellow, felt himself lifted off the ground without a hand touching him, before he finally succumbed to the narcotics.

At the time he’d written it off as sleep deprivation. Hallucinations like that are common when Tim goes a few days or more without sleep.

Now… something about it just didn’t sit right with him.

Tim knew his gut instinct was rarely wrong. And his gut? His gut was telling him—

Alfred caught his gaze and, without missing a beat, offered a knowing smile before returning to his work.

Tim’s gut clenched. If a ghost—or something close enough (were Infinite Realms beings truly dead, or something else entirely?)—could hide in plain sight, undetected by the cave’s newly installed paranoia-level sensors, then maybe Phantom could do the same!

Resolute, he spun his chair toward Constantine, cutting off the man’s tirade mid-sentence. “What if Phantom has a way to hide his signature?”

The warlock stumbled on his next step, nearly tripping over his own boots. “What?”

“You’ve been using summoning circles to summon spirits, right? Specifically, ghosts. Something without a body.” Tim asked. He didn’t bother waiting for an answer—he already knew it to be true. “But that’s the thing—what if it’s not necessarily a ghost we’re looking for?”

Constantine stuttered, mouth opening and closing. “What the bloody hell do you mean by—”

Tim pressed on, words quickening. “Spirit summoning relies on pulling the aforementioned spirit into the circle, right? That’s the foundation. But summoning circles for demons—and for the living—they work differently. They don’t just call on the soul. They use a signature to track down the holder and then a summoning that can drag the body along with it. The signature and the body are two separate parts! So what if the reason your circles keep failing is because Phantom isn’t just a spirit? What if he’s tethered to a living body—one so alive it shifts his magical signature? That would mean your circles can locate him, but they can’t pull him from where he is in Gotham. They’d hit a wall every time, because he’s still tethered!”

The warlock froze, paling slightly. “You’re saying—”

“I’m saying,” Tim cut in, voice sharp. He wheeled suddenly to the corner of the Batcave, dragging something out with a scrape of metal on stone. Constantine jumped, startled, as Tim yanked a whiteboard into the light like he’d conjured it from nowhere. The thing was chaotic—covered in red string, scrawled notes in cramped handwriting, blurry printouts, and timelines. A conspiracy map, clear as day.

“We already know Danny Fenton of Amity Park and Danyal al Ghul are the same person. That part’s confirmed—records, timelines, DNA matches, there’s no wiggle room. He disappears from the League at eight, resurfaces in Illinois a year later with new parents and a new name. That’s clear.”

He jabbed the marker against the board hard enough to squeak. “But something was missing. A reason. Why would someone like him—trained, dangerous, heir-adjacent—why would he run? Why did he need to flee from Amity Park?”

Constantine…paused. He didn’t seem to know whether to be disturbed or curious. “I guess you’re going to tell me anyway.”

Tim’s tone darkened, quickening: “Because if Danyal al Ghul—if Danny Fenton—was Phantom…then he wouldn’t just be unlucky. He’d be targeted. By the GIW. By the Fentons—their entire careers are ghost-hunting! Their tech is built to trap, dissect, annihilate. His own adopted parents would’ve looked at him and seen nothing but an experiment on the table.”

The marker clicked again, a staccato metronome to his reasoning. “What if he got caught? What if he barely got out? That explains the injuries. The paranoia. Why Danyal-and-or-Danny ran straight for Gotham like his life depended on it—because it did.”

He spun on his heel, jabbing the marker toward the pinned photographs. Grainy news stills, half-smeared by static, but unmistakable. “And look at this. Phantom’s supposed to be a ghost, sure, but every picture? Same age as Danny. Same damn face shape. Just sharper with a few liminal edges and graphic noise. Sure, he’s also palette swapped, but that doesn’t change the fact that they’re the same boy.”

Tim’s eyes burned—when was the last time he’d blinked? “Danny Fenton. Danyal al Ghul. Danny Phantom. One kid. Alive, dead, and crowned King of the Infinite Realms all at once.”

Constantine stared at him like he’d lost his mind. “That’s insane. Nobody can be alive and dead at the same time, lad. Not unless you’re cracked clear through.”

Tim’s grin spread wide, too wide, edged with manic energy. “That’s the thing! What if he can change at will? What if he can die at will—and revive at will? His signature would be so scrambled it’d be practically unrecognizable. It would be no wonder your circles couldn’t pin him down!”

The silence stretched, oppressive, broken only by the low hum of the Batcomputer’s cooling fans. Constantine’s cigarette-deprived hands twitched at his sides, his expression caught between disbelief and horror. Then he let out a ragged laugh that was more curse than humor, dragging both palms down his face.

“Christ on a bike,” he muttered hoarsely. “You’re mad, lad. But you’re also making too much damn sense. Bollocks—I hope you’re wrong. But. It would make sense… If it’s true—I mean, it’s true that the dead and the living do give off different signatures…”

Constantine peeked through tobacco-stained fingers. Tim beamed.

The warlock groaned long and hard into his hands. “...Bollocks. That changes things.”

The zeta tube beeped, filling the cave with its mechanical voice announcing the newcomer.

Bruce—Batman—strode out, cape flaring, already growling: “Constantine. You disregarded direct orders. I told you to stay out of—”

He paused. His lips thinned as he took in the scene before him—Tim standing in front of the whiteboard dramatically, marker still in hand, with Constantine slumped with his head in his palms.

One beat passed.

Batman’s voice dropped to a dangerous growl: “Red Robin, report.”

Tim straightened out of his awkward posture, and started again from the beginning.

Chapter Text

The palace chamber smelled of incense and iron, a thin green smoke curling from braziers along the walls. Tapestries of stitched fabric and dyed silks hung from dark hooks, their shadows shifting in the torchlight. The floor beneath the low bed showed a mosaic of Lazarus sigils, glowing faintly with energy from the pits below. The walls themselves seemed to whisper with the cries of the long departed.

Lounging on crimson sheets lay a woman, her olive skin traced with glowing ruins that slithered like serpents across her body. Her hair spilled white and silver down her back, draping like a veil over the chest of her lover, one arm idly draped across the pale planes of his chest, nails leaving faint trails across his skin as they traced idle designs.

The sound of the chamber doors creaking open broke the lull. A lone cultist entered, dropping to their knees and pressing forehead to stone. "Most honored one," the cultist began, voice quivering. "The portal has opened. Yet… there has been no sign of the Ghost King."

The woman's sharp breath hissed through her teeth. She sat up, silk sheets spilling from her shoulders, the runes across her skin catching the green light. “Of course not,” she muttered, lips curling into a thin snarl. “The boy king hides himself well. He must know that he cannot be summoned whilst he keeps his mortal guise.”

The cultist dared no response, still bent low. With a wave of her hand, she dismissed them. The doors groaned shut, leaving only the echo of her irritation in the cavernous chamber.

She turned, sliding her palm across the hard plane of her lover’s chest. Her fingers tapped against his ribs as if coaxing a tune from a drum. “Beloved,” she purred, her tone as sharp as a blade beneath velvet, “the Ghost King is clever. He thinks he can wait us out, skulking in shadows like a frightened whelp. But he cannot resist you. No one can. You should cross the veil, stalk through Gotham itself, and draw him forth. When he takes his true form… the throne of the Infinite Realms will be within our grasp.”

He laughed, the sound rattling like bones in a tomb. He threw his head back, voice echoing in the rafters. Then he snapped forward, pressing a kiss against her lips with unexpected warmth for one without lips. “Ah, my darling serpent,” he crooned when they parted, “your schemes are always delicious. To pluck a king from hiding like a frightened rabbit! Imagine the power when he kneels. All of life and death... balanced in our hands.”

She smiled, soft and wicked. She stroked down his chest, her hand splaying across his stomach. “The Lazarus has always chosen us,” she whispered into his mouth. “And now it will bow to us. All we need is to tempt him out of his shell. Then the summoning circle will close, and eternity itself will be chained to our whims."

The lover rose, teeth chattering in a facsimile of laughter. “Then to Gotham I go!” he declared, laughter bursting once more as if he could already taste the chaos unfolding. “The Ghost King cannot hide from me. Let him try—I will drag him into the circle with my own hands!”

She reclined back onto the cushions, watching him with serpentine eyes. “Good. Go, Habibi. And when you return, we will bathe in the waters together. The universe will be ours.”

And with that, the woman waved a hand and split the air before them open, the portal’s glow spilling through cracks in the walls and opening to the smoggy skies of Gotham City.

The lover laughed again, teeth grinning death and promise alike.

It was actually really difficult to learn how to use the grappling guns. They had to use gravity and inertia to their advantage rather than float indiscriminately, considering their usual form of flying wasn't affected by gravity unless they willed it to. Long story short, it was a good thing they were slightly more indestructible than full humans. They ran into a lot of corners and walls.

Danny was also certain that Dani was cheating and using her ghost abilities to move easier. But he couldn't prove it, so he didn't do anything beyond give her the stink eye when she laughed at his fumbles.

The two of them tore across the rooftops of Gotham, one chasing the other in a mess of tangled lines and cackling laughter. Nightingale, still trying to keep his momentum steady, shouted, “That counted as a swing, not a crash!”

“Sure, if walls are what you’re aiming for!” Sparrow called back, her voice bright with smug amusement as she vaulted from one ledge to the next. She fired her line and swung wide, doubling back to clip Nightingale's shoulder as she shot past.

Nightingale grunted and nearly lost his grip, then laughed despite himself, firing his own grappling hook to keep up. “You’re cheating!” he accused.

“Not my fault you’re clumsy!” Sparrow retorted, sticking her tongue out at him before kicking off another ledge.

They wove between the towers, darting like shadows in a playful chase, sending sparks flying when their boots scraped stone. Each time Sparrow gained ground, Nightingale countered with a desperate dive or awkward swing. Each time Nightingale managed a clever angle, Sparrow twisted through the air with uncanny precision, laughing like a spark of lightning.

The clash of grappling hooks and echo of laughter grew louder as Nightingale and Sparrow closed in, still racing each other through Gotham’s night. Then Nightingale spotted a familiar face—he grinned wide and shouted loud, “PHAROAH!”

Without hesitation, he dove, momentum carrying him straight into his friend. The force sent both Pharaoh and Nightingale sprawling, but Danny twisted in midair to shield Tucker with his own body, taking the brunt of the impact so his human friend wouldn’t be bruised. They landed in a heap on the roof, laughter ringing out.

“Danny!” Pharaoh yelped in surprise, his glasses askew over his domino mask (Danny would seriously have to find a way to thank Vlad for sending so many of them. Without actually thanking him aloud because--ew, gross. Thanking the Fruit Loop? Hard pass.) Then he laughed, clutching at his ribs. “You nearly gave me a heart attack, man!”

Nightingale just grinned down at him, breathless and bright-eyed, while Sparrow dropped down behind them, giggling at the pile of limbs.

Above them, Nightshade popped her head out of the safehouse window, peering down at the tangle of teenaged boys with an unimpressed look through her own domino—though the twitch of her lips betrayed her amusement.

“Save the cuddling for later, boys. We have company,” Nightshade called, voice dry as a desert and twice as warm.

Nightingale and Pharaoh froze, then immediately scrambled apart like guilty puppies. Both were blushing—heavily in Pharaoh’s case, faintly in Nightingale’s—while Sparrow laughed so hard she had to brace herself on the window ledge.

A second face slid into view beside Nightshade’s: a blonde in a purple cowl, grin bright enough to be seen even in the rooftop gloom. More heads followed—one masked in blank black, the other pale and sharp with an owl’s tilt that Nightingale recognized even before the name surfaced in his chest.

“Hi!” the blonde chirped. “I’m Spoiler. Also: ten out of ten entrance. Eleven out of ten landing. Nobody broke the AC, so you’re already doing better than when Red Robin first tried out the grapple.”

“Allegedly,” Nightshade added, though her lip twitch said she had already heard the story in detail.

Black Bat lifted a hand in a small wave. Strix leaned a shoulder to the window frame, watching. The tilt of her head was curious and fond, the way one watches a stray cat that keeps finding its way back.

Nightingale’s grin widened at the sight of Strix. He wasn’t too surprised to feel the recognition from her—core or no core, you couldn’t keep secrets from the dead. He lifted two fingers in greeting; she mirrored the motion.

“Come on,” Nightshade said, pushing the window open wider. “We’re sorting gear. Gotham’s getting lively.”

Danny snorted at that. Because. Lively? Lively with the dead. Wasn’t there a band named something like that? Or maybe a song? No, it had something to do with dancing, didn’t it?

“Time to go Dancing with the Dead!” chimed Tucker.

Danny perked up, “Oh my Ancients, I was just thinking of that!”

“Dude, nice!”

They high-five.

Sam groans. “Okay, boys, reel it in. We have work to do.”

Inside, the safehouse hummed with activity. A folding table bore a neat spread of med kits, Blasters, an Ecto-Foamer, a whole collection of Fenton Rods, Wrist Rays, a couple Thermoses, even a Fenton Bazooka.

Black Bat set down a bundle of cable ties and gave Pharaoh an approving nod. "You brought them."

“We brought them,” Nightshade corrected lightly, bumping her shoulder against Pharoah's. “And we scrounged up some extra Fenton Phones.” She tapped the stack, showing a collection of comms with the Fenton ecto-green color scheme. “Ghost-proof comm access.”

Pharaoh pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose, composure returning now that he wasn’t being used as a beanbag. “We can get those Bat comms you gave us a look, too. Can’t have too many comms.”

“Definitely,” Spoiler agreed, then leaned toward Sparrow. “We brought some snacks in exchange. Which is the true glue of any team-up.”

Sparrow brightened like someone had promised her fireworks. “Any fruit snacks?” she asked.

Spoiler winked and palmed a packet of gummies.

Sparrow squealed, leaping for the treat immediately.

While the others bantered, Strix stepped close to Nightingale. She stood within arm’s reach, chin tipped up. ‘Little Song-Bird,’ she signed simply.

Danny smiled. Damn, he was really terrible at keeping secrets, wasn’t he? He should probably be defensive about being found out so fast, but he could only feel thankful. Maybe it was the dead thing connecting the two of them? “Me,” he agreed. “Still in one piece.”

She looked him over as if to confirm it, then patted his shoulder once—approval, maybe, or welcome—and moved past to help Nightshade tighten the straps on a med kit. The simple contact steadied him more than he expected.

“Pharoah?” Nightshade prompted.

“Right.” Pharaoh scooped up the open comm housings and placed them in Nightingale’s hands. “You’re up, man. You’re the only one who can ecto-proof these without frying them. BatNet apparently hates ghost interference.”

Spoiler snickered at the name.

Nightingale looked down at the pile and then at his own hands. He could feel the faint tremor in his fingers—residual drain, a warning that his core didn’t like how much he’d burned in the last twenty-four hours. He swallowed it down. There wasn’t time to baby himself.

He dropped to the floor between Nightshade and Pharaoh with a thump, knees tucked, back resting against the couch. If he sat, he could work. If he sat between them, he could breathe.

Nightshade’s shoulder pressed into his, steady and warm. Pharaoh’s knee bumped his. Neither said anything about the way Nightingale leaned into the contact, just a little, as if the three of them had always fit like this.

“Okay,” Nightingale said, popping the first casing fully open. “I’m going to thread a microline through the logic gate and give it a tiny ecto injection. It’ll act like a surge suppressor and a translator. If we hit a ghost field, your comms won’t go dead, and they’ll filter spectral noise so you don’t get a chorus of static in your ear.”

Spoiler leaned over the table. “In English?”

“He’s making them work when the spooky stuff tries to make them not work,” Pharaoh translated with a grin, barely looking up from where he was sorting the pile of comms by model and battery health.

“Nice,” Spoiler declared. She turns to Sparrow. “You know about the Birds of Prey, Sparrow? We’re an all-women vigilante group. You want in?”

Sparrow lit up. “Do I?!”

“Welcome to the team!” Spoiler cheered, already shepherding her toward the snack stash with the energy of a friendly storm. Their chatter spun off at once—code names, cape names, snack rankings, which rooftops had the best ledges for dramatic entrances.

Black Bat settled near the window, eyes on the skyline, quiet sentinel as the room flowed around her. Strix took a place by the door, perched on top of an old dresser. Nightshade crouched again beside Nightingale, handing him a fine-tip screwdriver before he even had to ask for it.

“Thanks,” he murmured.

She bumped his shoulder with the smallest smile. “Fix fast. You can nap on my shoulder for thirty seconds after.”

“Thirty?” he echoed, amused despite the ache behind his eyes.

“Thirty,” she said, deadpan. “Forty if you make them sing.”

He huffed a laugh and curled around his work. The circuits were familiar territory—wires, resistors, microcontrollers all playing by rules, even when ghost energy tried to warp them. He teased a green thread from his core with care, guiding it through the copper like a river through a dry bed. The comm’s LED flickered, stuttered, then settled into a steady pulse. He handed it to Nightshade; she slid in a fresh battery and clipped the casing closed. Pharaoh took it without looking, assigned it to a labeled pile, and slid him the next. Rhythm found them fast.

Minutes thinned into focus. Nightingale worked. Nightshade fed him tools. Pharaoh divvied out the goods with the speed of a boy who had lived his whole life tinkering with gadgets. Spoiler and Sparrow’s laughter carried from the kitchen corner; at one point Spoiler’s delighted “You’re kidding, it explodes into confetti?” made even Black Bat chuckle under her breath. Strix remained a quiet hinge in the room, head cocked toward the window whenever the wind shifted, returning to the table to help tape labels to finished comms.

“Drink,” Nightshade said, pushing a full ecto thermos into Nightingale’s hand without ceremony.

He took a few grateful sips and set it down, letting the pure ecto fuel him. His eyelids felt heavy. The floor swam a bit from exhaustion. The steady press of friends at his sides felt like a blanket.

“How many more?” he asked.

“Three,” Pharaoh said. “Then we divvy routes and meet the Bats on the line.” His tone softened. “You sure you’ve got it?”

Nightingale nodded and cracked the next housing. “I’ve got it.” The thread of ectoplasm he teased this time was thinner, but it held. The LED blinked alive. “See? Easy.”

“Liar,” Nightshade said, but there was no bite in it. She set the finished unit aside and rested her cheek briefly on his hair. “Two more.”

He finished those, too. When the last casing clicked shut, a small cheer went up from the corner—Sparrow and Spoiler returning, arms full of protein bars and a bag of gummy worms that Spoiler claimed were for morale.

“You two besties already?” Nightingale asked, amused.

“Duh,” Sparrow said. “We bonded over snack diplomacy and ‘people who underestimate us live to regret it.’”

“And glitter bombs,” Spoiler added. “Don’t ask.”

Black Bat’s lips curved. “Routes,” she reminded, gentle as a bell.

Pharaoh slipped a comm into Danny’s ear and tapped it twice. “BatNet says hello,” he said. “Also please don’t break this one; Oracle can tell when you do and I’ll just die of embarassment if she scolds me for it.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” Nightingale murmured, smiling tiredly at his friends. What would he do without them?

Almost as soon as Nightingale joins the line, he's greeted by the last voice he wants to hear.  Batman. And not Damian's Baba Batman. No. This was Father. The infamous Bat of Gotham.

“Nightingale,” he growls.

Danny immediately goes “nope” and mutes the comm, only just keeping himself from chucking the thing across the room. He worked hard to fix that thing, dammit!

From the other comms, Danny can hear stunned silence. Then, an almost-familiar male voice starts laughing uproarishly.

“Did he just hang up on Batman?” the guy wheezes. “Oh. My god. I think I have a new favorite sibling. Sorry, Cass.”

Black Bat shakes her head, radiating amusement. 

“No names on the field, Hood,” Real Batman's voice growls next. 

“Oh, fuck off, old man, before I mute you, too!”

Ah, so the laughing man was Red Hood. Good to know.

Batman tries to continue his interrogation anyway, likely well aware that Nightingale was snickering with Sparrow and Pharoah. However, Robin intervenes.

“Father, you will cease your interrogation this instant!”

“Robin—” Batman starts to scold. 

“No! Do your inquiries rank above capturing the ghosts in Gotham? Or can your questions wait until this situation is resolved?”

Batman doesn't answer.

“Tt. You will cease your harassment of my brother before he and his allies decide it is no longer worth assisting us in this matter!”

More silence, then a grunt of acknowledgement.

Robin sniffs, ignoring the continued snickering of his various other siblings.

Nightingale can’t help but smile, a warm feeling fluttering in his core. To hear his twin come to his defense, against their Father, so easily… Danny palms his chest, not sure what to do about the feelings swirling there.

Thankfully, Damian was on a roll. “Nightingale!”

Danny obligingly reconnects his comm, still grinning. “Here, Robin.”

What followed came as naturally as breathing—they fell into old patterns, the kind forged when they had once trained together as heirs of the Demon’s Head. Robin’s voice took on that clipped efficiency, rattling off the roster in Gotham even as he expected Danny to keep pace. “In the field: Batman—Nightwing, myself, and Psyche. Red Hood. Spoiler, Black Bat, Strix. Oracle overseeing. At the cave: Red Robin and Father. On the outskirts: Harley Quinn, Poison Ivy, Catwoman. Batwoman, the Huntress, Bluebird, Batwing, and Signal.”

Danny blinked, mouth falling open. “…I don’t recognize half those names.”

Laughter and snickering rises from the comms from several people. Nightingale can feel his cheeks go warm.

Robin’s tone never wavered. “It is of no consequence. Now—your assessment. Where do your allies fit?”

Danny exhaled, his eyes flicking around the room, landing on each of his Fraidmates, considering each. “We work on containment only, not serious harm,” he said firmly. “Ghosts can be dispersed and captured, but if you damage them seriously, you risk escalation.”

“Affirmative,” Robin said at once, not even arguing. “Now—skillsets.”

Danny pointed first at Sparrow. “Sparrow. Fast. Evasive. Good for drawing attention or reaching civilians.”

Sparrow grinned like it was the best compliment she’d ever had.

His hand moved to Nightshade. “Nightshade. Practical thinker. She keeps us steady. Adaptable. Makes quick calls in the field.”

Nightshade arched a brow but didn’t deny it.

Finally, Pharaoh. Danny’s grin softened. “Pharoah. Tech genius. If it runs on code, circuits, or energy, he’ll make it work. And he’s better than me at keeping everyone connected.”

Pharaoh flushed but tried to play it off. “Tech is easy, dude. It's nothing.”

Robin grunted a confirmation. “Tentative roster: Psyche with Harley Quinn. Nightshade with Poison Ivy. Sparrow with Black Bat and Spoiler. Pharaoh with Oracle. Harley Quinn, Poison Ivy, Oracle, and Black Bat act as team leaders, drawing from the others as needed.”

A laugh came from the comm line, Baba Batman’s voice warm and unrestrained. “That sounds reasonable.”

Real Batman grunted. “Red Robin will be on the field, with Pharaoh. And Nightingale joins one of the Batmans. No exceptions.”

Danny bit back the urge to argue, already knowing Father would be stubborn as a brick wall about it. Call it intuition. "Tt. Affirmative," he snipped.

Nightingale's reaction immediately elicited coos from several individuals. "Awww, they scoff the same!" someone teased over the comms. Danny ducked his head, cheeks hot, turning away from his giggling Fraidmates (plus Spoiler). He felt Tucker nudge his arm teasingly, which only made the blush worse.

Robin made a similar "Tt" sound, only worsening the chorus of cooing. "Enough!" Robin snapped. "We have already wasted too much time as it is! Everyone, disperse!"

The line grew busy as Oracle divided out tasks and assignments. It would all hinge on the tech Danny’s team provided, but there was enough for them to get started before the ghosts made too much damage.

…Danny hoped. (Damn it, did Danny just jinx himself?)

He shook his head and turned to his Fraidmates, smiling tiredly. “Alright. Ready to go, guys?”

“Been ready!” chirped Dani, already heading for the window.

“Make sure to grab some tech before you go,” Nightshade reminded her, already strapping on a wrist ray.

“Right!”

 Pharoah leans into Nightingale, coming close enough to whisper, “You sure you’ll be okay, dude? You look wiped out.”

Danny offers him a wane grin. “I’m gonna have to be,” he mutters back. “Don’t worry. Mortal abilities only, barring an emergency.”

Tucker obviously wasn’t happy with that, but he also knew that there was no arguing with Danny right then. He clapped a hand on Danny’s shoulder and squeezed. “Let someone know if you’re about to pass out, okay dude? Please don’t just pass out and leave someone to find you later. I’ll die of worry.”

Danny flashed a fanged smirk. “Can’t have that. I like my Pharoah the way he is.”

It was hard to tell, but Danny thinks he could see Tucker blushing under his domino.

Spoiler flicked a gummy worm at them. “C’mon guys, I love flirting as much as the next vigilante, but we have some ghosts to wrangle. Also, for the record, if anyone gets goo on my cape I will make an Instagram about it.”

“You’re not supposed to have an Instagram,” Black Bat said, perfectly straight-faced.

“We live in a society,” Spoiler replied gravely, then burst into laughter when Sparrow cackled.

When Nightingale lifted his head, the room was set—packs buckled, comms live, routes burned into memory. The night outside echoed with distant sirens and a low, wrong hum that tasted like metal on the tongue.

“Okay,” Nightingale said, rolling his shoulders. He pressed minutely back into Pharoah’s grip, then gently shook him off. The ache in his core was still there but the fog had cleared. He turned to the window and the city beyond. “Let’s go keep Gotham in one piece.”

“Try not to faceplant,” Sparrow said sweetly, already climbing to the sill.

“Says the cheater,” he shot back.

“Alleged cheater,” Spoiler corrected, offering Sparrow a fist bump. “We have no proof and also I like her.”

Strix cracked the window wider. Black Bat checked the street with a glance. Nightshade squeezed Nightingale’s hand once, quick and sure.

“Look alive, Nightingale,” she said.

“Only if you do, Nightshade,” he replied.

And then they were moving—two shadows and a spark through the window, two more at their back, the city rising to meet them with all its teeth and all its reasons to fight for it.

Chapter Text

Something about the portal was fucking with the Pits.

Red Hood listens to the alarms and the distant screaming coming from beyond Crime Alley. The chaos rolls through Gotham in waves—sirens, gunfire, bursts of that gut-clenchingly familiar green light—but he stays where he is, just inside the invisible border of his territory. His boots feel anchored to the gravel-topped rooftop he’s perched on.

What he doesn’t get is why.

Every part of him screams to move—to go, to help. His family is out there: Nightwing, Robin, Black Bat, hell even Batman. His people. But something primal inside him pulls the other way, digging in its heels. His instincts tear him in two. Protect the Alley. And. Protect your family.

He tests the line again, one boot hovering over the edge of the building. The second it crosses, something inside him snarls. His gut twists, a growl rising from his throat before he even realizes it’s there. The Pit usually burns like acid in his veins. Tonight, it snarls in a different way than usual. Instead of wanting to go kill people, this time it wants to Protect Its Territory.

He retreats half a step, scowling beneath the helmet.

“Guess that’s not happening,” he mutters to himself.

Whatever. Not like his family can’t handle themselves. They’re trained, armed to the teeth, and already working with that strange new player—Nightingale—and his merry band of ghost hunters or whatever the fuck they were. The Alley, though? The Alley is his. Always has been. He, alone, keeps it safe.

So his feet stay planted.

The Pit is loud in his head. It’s been doing that since the moment the portal in the Cauldron opened, but not in the same way he’s used to. It wasn’t that burning, corrosive rage that comes with Pit-induced bloodlust. No—this sound hums lower, thrumming almost physically under his ribs and near his heart. Less fury, and more… expectation. Anticipation.

He was convinced he was hallucinating the feeling, but that thing in his chest was almost… purring? Which was weird, even for the fucking Pits. So he was resolutely not noticing it, or telling anyone about it.

In the corner of his mind, unbidden, comes an image. Swirling green skies. Clusters of floating islands. And in the center of it all—a boy with snow-white hair and green, green, green eyes. Beaming at him. Calling his name.

Jason shakes his head hard, dispelling the vision.

Again with the fucking Pit hallucinations. They’d been around since he’d been pulled out of the waters, but lately they’d been more frequent. Clearer. Less like flashes and more… memories.

Fuck. There was another thing to shove aside and ignore until it became a problem. God, he was becoming like Tim, wasn’t he? Fuuuuuck—

A shadow lands beside him, silent as breath. Black Bat.

The Pit reacts instantly, the purr in his chest turning warm. Sister.

Jason all but relaxes at that. At least he wasn’t a danger to his family with all of the anger bottled up inside him. It was always a toss-up where the Pits were involved.

Cass tilts her head, assessing him from behind her unreadable mask, before extending her hands. Three objects sit in her palms: a comm unit, a sci-fi enthusiast’s fever dream of a ray gun, and a… soup thermos?

Jason stares. “You’re kidding.”

She doesn’t answer, only lifts her hands up in offer.

He takes the comm first, sliding it into his helmet port. The moment it connects, the static that had been clawing at his nerves goes silent. Immediate, blessed clarity fills the channel.

Spoiler’s voice is the first thing he hears when the channel connects. “—okay, Sparrow? Red Hood’s an ally, he’s with us.”

“It’s not that,” a young girl piped up—Sparrow. “It’s just… There’s a ghost’s Haunt across the street, and it definitely wouldn’t be a good idea for me to get on their nerves by intruding on their turf.”

Jason looks around and—yep, that’s Spoiler on the roof across from them, just outside the Alley. Beside her was the girl, who was much smaller than her. Black hair, dark outfit, pale skin. Jason couldn’t see much else from where he was without using his helmet, but he’s still checking out the ray gun and thermos that Black Bat had handed over. He was just. Also keeping an eye on the stranger.

The Pits bubbled a warning. Danger.

Yeah. Definitely keeping an eye on the stranger.

He can see as Spoiler throws her hands up in the air, voice turning exasperated over the comms. “Isn’t that what we’re out here to do, though? Catch ghosts?”

Sparrow waved her own arms around dramatically. “I know that! But I’m not picking fights I can’t win, and I would definitely not win against this guy!”

A new voice joins the conversation with an impatient tt. “You are aware of the strength of this ghost just from this ‘Haunt’?” Robin asks. There’s the sound of fighting on the kid’s end of the line—plasma blasts and a dramatic echoing voice yelling about birds. Must be he was fighting at least one of those portal ghosts.

“Oh yeah, I know who she’s talking about!” chirps Nightingale. And that’s. So weird, because Nightingale’s voice was only a few shades off from Robin’s, just with a different accent and a brighter tone. So it really sounded like Robin if he had been infected with some kind of Dick-personality-inducer and a Midwestern accent. But Nightingale’s next words cut off Red Hood’s musings abruptly— “That’s the ghost of Crime Alley you’re feeling, right Sparrow? I passed by there when I was first getting used to Gotham. Whoever that guy is, he’s been there wayyyy longer than this portal has. I wouldn’t try messing with him unless he attacks first.”

What.

Black Bat places a hand on the wrist that was suddenly holding onto the ray gun far too tightly. Jason forcefully makes himself loosen his grip, his breathing suddenly heavy.

“Elaborate, Nightingale,” Batman growls, for once on the same page as Jason.

Nightingale tt’s, and Red Hood—despite the fact that he’s currently seeing green—has to bite back a laugh. Funny, Jason barely remembers the squirt who used to hang off Damian’s shadow like a limpet, but damn if they hadn’t picked up the same verbal ticks. Nightingale grunts, a sharp whine of machinery, a whoosh, and the boy whooped in success. “Got ‘em, Ahki! That’s two and—ow! What did you do that for, Da—Robin? Huh? Oh, right, explanations, sorry.” Nightingale returned to the topic at hand. “It really isn’t too complicated, Fath—Batman. The ghost of Crime Alley, from the small instance I examined them, has been there for several years at least. Their Haunt is well-established at this point. If you haven’t noticed any activity from them, I really wouldn’t worry about it at this time. It’s more important to deal with the non-locals, since they’re actively causing trouble.”

One of Nightingale’s friends—the boy, what was his name? Something Egyptian—chuckles behind the computer keys clacking on his end. “My dude, you’re starting to sound like you did when we were eight! All overly formal and stuff. ‘From the small instance I examined them’,” he impersonated in a stiff formal voice. “Loosen up, bro!”

“Dude, lay off!” Nightingale laughed.

“Lets stay on topic, boys,” Nightwing (who was currently cosplaying as the Bat again) suggested gently.

Nightingale was whining over the comms when the Pits suddenly rears its head and screeches in Jason’s head.

Intruder!

Red Hood whips around, immediately bringing up his new gun. A flash of green bursts from the muzzle with accuracy born from years of slinging a gun around crime-ridden Gotham.

The Intruder makes a startled shriek and goes flying from the hit, crashing into the brick wall opposite Red Hood and Black Bat, dust and debris flying everywhere.

Across the border, Spoiler and Sparrow are making surprised and questioning noises over the comms. But by that point, Jason had already tuned them out.

No one messed with Red Hood’s Crime Alley.

His grapple fires with a sharp hiss, cable singing as it launches for the other building. It clinks right next to the glowing green whatever-it-was, and Red Hood was launching himself off the roof with his sister hot on his heels. He slams feet-first into the thing, slamming it completely through the cracked wall. The impact makes the air ripple with energy, sending a prickling up Jason’s spine.

“Not in my Alley,” he snarls at the ghost.

By the time he finally gets a good look at the being, its shriek had turned into laughter. Oddly familiar laughter.

“Looks like ol’ Robin is still kick-first, ask questions never!” the ghost wheezed against the boot in their sternum. They’re vaguely man-shaped, covered head-to-toe in a viscous, oil-like sludge. It gleams like an oil spill, except instead of rainbow colors, it's just Lazarus green. Their eyes are solid red and bright against the rest of them. A wide smarmy grin stretches from ear to ear on the ghost, fangs glinting red. “Seems like nothing’s changed since you killed me, eh Robbie?”

Red Hood levels the ray gun at them. “Don’t know who you think you are,” he growled. “And I don’t fucking care. You don’t get to walk all over Crime Alley like you own the place. Go back to your own cesspit, ghost!”

The ghost warbles another laugh. Red Hood is made to lurch forward as the ghost seemingly melts into the floor, disappearing into the stone. When he regains his footing, he growls again, the Pits howling in rage, and twists around.

He twists around, scanning the empty room and the alley beyond the hole in the way. The air is thick with dust and unnatural shadows. His helmet HUD flickers, glitching and making him curse. Fuck, his helmet wasn’t made for ghosts!

“Show yourself, coward!” he barks, voice modulator jumping and crackling until the words are basically nonsense.

A laugh oozes from the shadows, slick and bubbling, echoing off brick. “Coward? Oh, Red—”  Jason swings the ray gun toward the sound and fires. The ecto-blast cuts through the dark, scorching the air green, but it only hits wall. “—You wound me. Who’s the real coward here, me or you?”

From behind him, the puddle of ghost reforms and smiles unsettlingly. Their voice slithered up his spine. “Still shooting blind, Robbie. Some things never change.”

He snarls and fires again. The puddle stretches away quickly, just barely missing the ecto blast. The ghost laughs.

Black Bat drops down beside him, silent as ever. Without a word she unclasps a glowing green staff from her belt. She moves like liquid herself—step, spin, strike—driving the staff through the ghost’s center.

But the ghost just ripples, body bowing immediately away from the strike. Slippery and water-like.

Red Hood curses and tugs off the stupid glitching helmet, glad he remembered to put on his domino before heading out. “The fuck is this thing?” he growls, popping out the altered comm so he could shove it in his ear. He tossed the now-apparently-useless helmet behind them.

The unnatural grin of the slimy ghost widens, baring more needle-like teeth. “Name’s Slickback, Robin.”

Red Hood’s lip curls. “Not ringing any bells, slimeball.”

“Oh, come on now,” the ghost purrs, voice rolling like oil over water. “Don’t you remember me? I’m hurt, Robin. You once screamed my name.”

Jason’s pulse spikes at the implication. Gross.

Black Bat glances at him—small, sharp, assessing—but Red Hood doesn’t meet her eyes. He’s too busy stalking forward, ray gun trained on the face that’s half-formed from ectoplasm.

“I don’t know you.”

“Sure you do, Robbie. Remember? You threw me off a roof.”

Hood’s gun fires again—green flash, sizzling hiss—but the ghost only laughs and slips away again, reforming outside that time.

Red Hood growled and darted after the fucker, throwing himself outside and landing in the alley below. Thankfully, Hood’s people knew better than to stick around and gawk like some of the stupider folk of Gotham, so the street’s completely devoid of life.

Slickback chuckles, forming into a semi-humanoid form. Blue skin, oil-slick mullet, red eyes. Smarmy grin. “I ‘slipped’ remember,” they—no, he—croons, voice rising in pitch. “That’s what you told yourself later, wasn’t it? Just a slip. Not your fault. Not the Golden Boy’s mistake. Just gravity’s cruelty sending me down, down, down into the pavement below.”

Red Hood freezes, every nerve ending buzzing. His stomach lurches.

There’s only one man that would think to accuse him of something like that.

“Felipe,” he breathes. The word comes out like a curse. “Felipe Garzonas.”

The laughter doubles, booming around him from every direction. “There it is! Knew you’d dig up the memory eventually.”

Black Bat moves again, spinning her staff in a blur of green light. And Slickback dodged. Again. “Hood,” she warns, voice low, “focus.”

But he’s already charging, gun up, voice raw over the comms.

“Some fuckers really should stay dead, you slimy bastard!”

The ghost’s grin distorts, dripping like tar. He dodges, squirms, bowing away like gravity is his plaything and air resistance doesn’t exist. “Awww Robbie, I completely agree! Too bad some of us don’t know how to stay dead.” He cackles, hands forming into dripping green claws. “How’s about we fix that, little Bluejay?”

“Bluejay!”

Jason freezes for half a heartbeat, the sound going straight into his bones. The world around him blurs—just for a moment—and the alley flickers into something else: a snowy landscape and voices echoing in laughter through the green swirling skies.

“C’mon, Bluejay! Show me how your fire works, again!”

No!

Jason practically empties the clip of his ray gun, blast after blast, fury building with every miss. The alley fills with light and the reek of burning ozone. Miss, miss, miss!

“Shut up!”

Slickback only laughs harder, the sound bubbling and wet. “You always were such a violent little hero. Tell me, how’d that work out for you?”

The Pit roars under his skin, answering the mockery with its own feral growl. Jason can’t tell anymore where the rage ends and he begins.

Black Bat plants herself between them, staff raised defensively, eyes sharp. “Feeding,” she reports. “Growing.”

But Jason’s already beyond hearing.

Because Slickback—Felipe—parted his teeth and breathed vile green smoke in their direction. “You didn’t kill me, Robbie. You made me. Every time you remember that night—every time you flinch with guilt—” He trails a finger of ectoplasm along the air, the touch leaving streaks of neon. “—I get stronger.”

The street trembles under the weight of Slickback’s laughter. The green dripping from the ghost burns through the pavement, eating away at the asphalt with a hiss. Black Bat backflips away from a spray of green bile, staff flashing through the air in a flurry of calculated strikes that the ghost again evades. Each movement leaves a smear of sickly light behind, like the air itself is trying to catch fire.

“Hood!” Black Bat shouts, voice sharp—rare for her. “Calm. Down.”

“Can’t,” he grinds out. His voice cracks around the word. “Not the time.”

Felipe—Slickback—throws his head back and howls, the sound warping the air. “Oh, that’s beautiful! There it is. The rage. The guilt. You remember how it felt, don’t you? That rush when I fell?”

“Shut. Up!” Jason fires again, each blast carving smoking scars in the walls, missing by inches as Slickback flows and bends around the shots like oil over water. Black Bat finally manages to land a solid hit to his side—but the ecto-staff just sinks in, like striking mud. She rips it free, flicking the goo from her gauntlets quickly.

Before she can move again, a grappling line sings through the air, followed by Spoiler’s bright purple boots hitting the ground.

“Okay, okay, I’m here! What the hell is that thing?” Spoiler yells, adjusting her goggles. “Thought Nightingale said these were ghosts, not slime monsters!”

“Ghost,” Cass answers shortly, spinning her staff to deflect another blob of acid ectoplasm. “Dangerous.”

“I can see that!” Spoiler ducks a swing, firing her own ecto-pellet from the modified launcher Nightingale had given her. It hits Slickback square in the shoulder—splattering green mist across the alley—but the ghost only laughs, stretching unnaturally to reform.

“More children with toys,” he sneers, grinning wide. “How many does the Bat keep around these days?”

Spoiler grits her teeth. “Enough to make you regret asking!”

Over the comm, Sparrow’s voice crackles through, bright and teasing: “Oh my god, Spoiler, that line was terrible! You’re supposed to banter, not embarrass yourself!”

“Yeah, and you’re supposed to be helping, not standing on the sidelines!” Spoiler snaps, dodging another swipe.

“Hey! That’s not my fault!” Sparrow whines. “I’m not about to make the angry ghost that lives there any angrier, thank you!”

Nightingale’s voice cuts in—cheerful even through the chaos. “So the guy you’re fighting isn’t the ghost that lives there, then?” At Sparrow’s confirmation, Nightingale hummed. “Odd that the guy hasn’t shown up yet to kick that Slickback guy’s butt. Hopefully he’ll come in to help soon, because that guy’s definitely feeding off Hood’s energy by the way he’s been talking. He can likely feed off an emotion Hood is feeling.”

“What does that even mean?” Spoiler huffs, falling in with Black Bat to tag-team the ghost.

“It means Red Hood’s anger’s basically acting like a protein shake for him!” Sparrow chimes in.

Jason growls, ignoring all of them. The comm chatter fades to white noise as the world narrows to the glistening, laughing shape in front of him. Slickback twitches and morphs, his grin widening until it looks carved into his face.

“You can’t fight what’s inside you, Robbie,” he taunts, voice low and vicious. “I’m what’s left when you strip away the hero act. The ghost of every bad choice.”

Red Hood lunges. This time, he doesn’t bother with trying and failing to shoot the bastard again. He closes the distance, seizing the ghost by the throat—or where its throat should be—and slamming him against the nearest wall hard enough to shake bricks loose.

“Get out of my head,” Jason snarls, and drives the butt of his ray gun straight into Slickback’s face. The ectoplasm splashes, sizzling across the ground. The ghost lets out a strangled sound—half-laugh, half-scream—as the green light sputters around him.

For a heartbeat, it looks like Jason’s won. The Pit in his veins hums, victorious, the way it always does when violence solves something.

Then Slickback grins through the gore.

“Oh, Robbie. You should know better than to touch me.”

The world shifts.

It happens too fast to react—Slickback’s oily form ripples, rising like a tide and pouring over Jason’s arm. His body convulses as the slime spreads across his armor, smothering red and black under glistening green. Black Bat lunges forward, but the mass lashes out, forcing her back with a wave of energy that knocks Spoiler off her feet.

“Hood!” Cass’s voice cuts through the static, distant and distorted through the comms.

Slickback’s laughter crawls through Jason’s ears as his vision starts to blacken. “You didn’t kill me, remember?” it whispers, voice echoing from inside him now. “You brought me back.”

Jason gasps, trying to fight, trying to breathe, but the darkness surges up from the edges of his vision—slick and heavy and hungry.

The last thing he hears before everything goes under is Cass yelling for backup—
and Nightingale’s voice snapping sharply over the comms:

“Red Hood’s being overshadowed!”

No, Bluejay! he hears a scream.

Then the world goes black.